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THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 




NATHAN BURKE 


% 


BY 


MARY S. WATTS 

)l 

AUTHOR OF “THE TENANTS,” 


ETC. 


Nefo gork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1919 


All rights reserved 


tyOODRIDCMt 




TZ 3 

.\aJMS V' 


N 

0. 



Copyright, 1910, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published April, iqio. 


Nortooob $ress 

J. S. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 


fRANBFBR 
G. PUBLIC LIBRARY 
SBPT. lO, 1 40 




CHIVERS 


V 



^jlHAPTSB 

02 I. 
fli II. 

WO 

S ni. 

—- IV. 
V. 

^ VI. 

vii. 

VIII. 
IX. 
X. 
XL 
XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 


XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 


CONTENTS 

PART I 


In which Mr. Burke begins the World . . 1 

In which Mr. Burke’s Pedigree comes under 

Discussion.13 

Childe Boland to the Dark Tower Came . . 25 

The Mail-Bag.41 

In which we hear a Little Ancient History . 59 

Bes Angusta Domi.71 

In which is continued the Chronicle of Small 

Beer. . 85 

In which Mr. Burke makes a New Start . . 103 

Exoritur Clamor Virum.119 

Log-Cabins-and-Hard-Cider.131 

In which Nance begins the World . . . 145 

The Mail-Bag.156 

Which rambles Considerably .... 173 
In which we hear a little more Ancient His¬ 
tory .189 

Which is Short and rather Serious . . . 202 

Longer than the Last and somewhat more 

Cheerful.211 

In which — the Horse being stolen — Nathan 

shuts the Stable Door.226 

Contains Sundry Social Experiences . . . 244 

In which the Bar receives a Notable Addition 258 







CONTENTS 


vi 

CHAPTEB 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

y. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 
XV. 


XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 


PAG* 

Contains Some Business and a Good Deal of 

Pleasure. 272 

In which Mr. Burke casts his First Vote . . 285 

Contains both Peace and War .... 301 
The Girl I left behind Me. 316 

PAKT II 

The Mail-Bag. 334 

In which we make Some New Friends and meet 

One Old One. 349 

Matamoros. 368 

Alarums. Excursions. 383 

In which the Warrior languishes in his Tent 398 
In which the First Ohio behaves Well under 

Fire. 408 

In which the American Army moves on Tampico 423 

Tampico. 437 

“And there was War Again — ” .... 448 


Contains Some hitherto Unprinted History of 

the Mexican Campaign. 

The Brigade of Saint Patrick . . . . 

The Street of the Good Death . 

Arms yield to the Toga. 

In which Colonel Burke gets his Discharge . 
“ ‘ Here’s Sorry Cheer ! ’ quoth the Heir o’ 

Lynne” . 

In which Mr. Burke receives and makes Visits 
Times change — and we change with Them 
In which we hear Various News . 

In which Mr. Marsh’s Will is Opened 
In which the Granger Claims are Settled 
Exeunt Omnes. 


458 

472 

483 

497 

510 

529 

542 

560 

574 

585 

599 

615 






INTRODUCTION 


In a part of the book which (whatever the fate of the rest 
of it) hardly anybody ever reads, it may not be accounted 
bad taste for the editor of this history to mention herself, or 
to set down a few personal recollections. It might have 
been better to say one personal recollection, for, as usually 
happens, I find that what I unthinkingly supposed to be a 
number of consecutive and vivid impressions resolves, upon 
a rigid analysis, into a single one, and that rather hazy, con¬ 
nected with the inaugural ceremonies of some governor of our 
State, thirty-five or forty years ago — nearer forty, I fear! 
My grandfather took me to see the parade, a day to be regis¬ 
tered with a white stone — though what governor it was, 
and what troops, whether militia or regulars that paraded, 
and why they did it, and what all the crowds, and hurrahing, 
and brazen uproar of bands, and huge spectacular to-do were 
about I knew no more than the man in the moon, no more 
than the other six-year-old youngsters, no more than I do 
at this moment, and cared as little. It was a raw, drizzling 
day in January — that being the season humanely selected 
by our authorities for all such civic celebrations in the open 
air; we stood on a platform or hustings, jammed in with many 
others, and I vaguely remember the proletariat surging at 
our feet. There was, no doubt, the usual protracted wait, 
the usual dashing up and down of important gentlemen in 
glorious regalia on horseback, the invariable policemen 
hustling the invariable drunk-and-disorderlies, the scurrying 
dogs, the bewildered but resolute old lady who will cross the 
street — no parade ever took place without these accessories. 
And then, at last, distant cheering, the Star-Spangled Banner 
on a whole platoon of key-bugles, and the soldiers wheeling 
into sight half a dozen blocks away. After them open car¬ 
riages with parties of portly complacent gentlemen, taking 
off their hats to the crowd, as if it were a privilege to catch 


INTRODUCTION 


viii 

cold in such a cause — one, in particular, who does more smil¬ 
ing and bowing and is saluted with more vigorous roaring 
than all the others put together, as I observe. Then more 
bands, and soldiers, and carriages. And then, suddenly, 
with a terrifying outburst of sound all along the street, some 
one riding at the head of a small company under a haggard 
old faded dish-clout of a flag that whips tight around the staff 
in the cold, rain-laden wind. Why does everybody make 
such an appalling rumpus ? And lo, my grandfather, an old 
gentleman of stately and serene behavior in ordinary circum¬ 
stances, madly snatches off his high shining hat, and sets it 
on his cane, the ebony cane topped with gold that men of his 
age carried in those days, and waves it aloft, and bawls: 
“Bravo, Nat!” I remember with an extraordinary distinct¬ 
ness how the hat flew off and went skipping about amongst 
the heads and shoulders of the proletariat until it was rescued 
by an agile member thereof, who shinned up one of the posts 
supporting our rostrum to restore it. “That’s right, old 
hoss!” he said approvingly as my grandfather once more 
brandished it in the face of Heaven, holding it firmly by the 
brim this time, however. “Naw, I don’t want yer money. 
Give him a good one! Yay, Yay, Yay! Fighting Burke! 
Fighting Nat Burke! Yay, Yay, Yay!” Thus does this 
son of toil express himself with vast energy and lungs of sole- 
leather. One of us is a little frightened, I believe. 

There succeeds an interval foggily associated in my mind 
with ice-cream; and then we are posted under some kind of 
portico, and I clutch my grandfather’s hand very tight, as 
somebody rides up with his great glossy long-tailed black 
charger flinging the gravel of the roadway this way and that 
and champing on two or three bits,with two or three bridle- 
reins — so they appear to me. Of the ensuing conversation I 
recollect every syllable by some freak of memory. “Hey, 
General!” remarked my grandfather. “Hey, Charlie!” 
returned the hero; and, looking down from his elevation, 
uttered these winged words, “You’ve got your hat knocked 
in on top.” My grandfather took it off and examined it with 
a rueful grin. “ Too much enthusiasm, Nat,” he said; “it’s 
no matter, this rain’s ruined it anyhow. Did it rain like 
this at Chapultepec? ” General Burke says that it didn’t 
rain at Chapultepec. It rained at Contreras, though — 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


and, to my dismay, “Whose little girl is that ?” he asks. 
My grandfather explains that it is John’s little girl; where¬ 
upon I am lifted up to the pommel of the saddle, and cling there 
between terror and delight while the great man (who seems at 
least eight feet high, and, as his thick hair is white, must be, 
in my judgment, a hundred years old) looks at me with his 
steady, bright blue eyes, and asks me how old I am, and how 
far I have got in the Reader? 

And here, to be strictly honest, this record must close; for 
what else the general said and did on the one occasion when 
I saw him, I cannot remember — or cannot disentangle what 
I remember from what I have been told. I must believe the 
occurrence was of some importance, for I was never allowed 
to forget it; but upon these skeleton memories the older 
people about us — and we ourselves in later years — uncon¬ 
sciously hang such a fabric of ideas and suggestions that a 
childish recollection ought not, after all, to count for much, 
if it were not that by these feeble links the generations are 
strung together; and the merest wire of a tradition may still 
bring us some message from the lonesome dead. 

General Burke was in active legal practice up to the time 
of his death, which occurred very suddenly of heart failure, 
during the summer of 1889. He was known by his family to 
have been occupying his spare moments with writing his 
autobiography; and, indeed, was found at the last (by his 
daughter-in-law, with whom and his son, James S. Burke, he 
made his home after his wife’s death) sitting lifeless at his 
desk with the pen in his hand, a piece of manuscript before 
him, and a great quantity of the papers — old letters, frag¬ 
ments of diaries, newspaper clippings, and so on — which he 
had accumulated to assist him in this task, scattered about 
the table. In the haste, confusion, and distress of the dis¬ 
covery these were all swept aside into drawers and portfolios; 
and it was not until some while afterwards, when the Bar 
Association and the members of General Burke’s commandery 
of the Loyal Legion proposed to publish their several memo¬ 
rials, that any attention was given to this collection of memo¬ 
randa, from which, being under his own hand and as it were 
authoritative, much valuable and interesting information 
might have been extracted. Now, however, a difficulty 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


arose: the papers had got into the greatest disorder, the 
manuscript biography itself bore traces of Burke’s evident 
intention to revise and alter it, no one knew in what sequence 
the letters and clippings were to be inserted, if at all, and 
finally, even if the general’s plan had been perfectly clear, or 
his work finished, it was to be doubted whether — as many of 
the people whom he mentions were still living, and as he had 
uttered his mind about them and others with entire freedom 
— it would be advisable, or in accordance with his desire, to 
make the autobiography, or any part of it, public. In the 
end, as commonly happens, nothing was done; none of 
Burke’s heirs felt disposed to take any responsibilities; and 
the whole mass of writing lay neglected in its box, was carted 
about the country in the course of many changes of residence 
or other family upheavals, tenanted a dozen attics, and at the 
last was actually preserved from complete oblivion and per¬ 
haps destruction by a chance inquiry from the custodian of 
our State Historical Society. He was preparing an article 
for one of the monthlies on the Mexican War; and finding a 
reference to General Burke as the “Hero of Chapultepec,” 
wanted to inform himself further. As it turned out, however, 
a minute examination of all the printed and written docu¬ 
ments the general had collected failed to unearth anything 
about Chapultepec, except a couple of lines in his journal, 
u Sept. 13, 184-7. 9 o'clock at night. In camp outside Belen 

Gate, City of Mexico. Castle stormed this forenoon. Very 
tired." 

The task of editing this memoir fell to me as being one of 
the few people who remembered its author, warmly inter¬ 
ested in the history of the State, and, for a final touch, a 
follower of letters, accustomed to the preparation of matter 
for print. If I judge Burke aright, nothing could have given 
the old gentleman more ironic amusement than the prospect 
of his autobiography committed to the cares of a literary 
woman; but I have tampered with it as little as possible. 
Somewhere Burke quotes old George Marsh as saying: “You 
let a man talk half an hour and he’ll tell you what sort of a 
fellow he is.” Put a pen in his hand and let him write unre¬ 
servedly, and he will do the same, I think. Nay, let him 
write as artificially and with as much restraint as he chooses, 
still will he write himself down an ass, a sage, a coward, a hero, 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


a rogue, an honest man, in spite of him ! Burke wrote con¬ 
sciously for posterity — his own posterity, that is, and not 
without some posing ; witness his funny and rather amiable 
little affectation of relating his story (except when he forgets 
or grows excited) in the third person, like Csesar. Yet no 
man could have felt a heartier hatred for the sham; and he 
was too shrewd or had too intimate a knowledge of the world 
not to realize that nothing he could say would describe or 
explain people one-half so well as what they said themselves. 
That, doubtless, was his reason for preserving the scores of 
letters which we found interspersed with his notes and diaries. 
Some of them are almost without interest, even to the family; 
and it has been repeatedly pointed out to me that many (in 
fact, most!) of George Ducey’s and Anne’s are — in the sturdy 
phrase of one commentator — “no better than so much waste 
paper,” from which nobody on earth could get either enter¬ 
tainment or instruction. But it seems to be the plain duty 
of the general’s literary executor to present them in full as he 
probably intended. 

There are only two or three likenesses in existence of Na¬ 
than Burke. Needless to say, he was not an eight-foot giant 
in stature; a daguerreotype taken about 1852 shows him to 
have been a slender man not much over medium height, with 
brown or dark hair which became very white later, although 
he did not live to an advanced age. He died August 4, 1889, 
in his sixty-eighth year. The head in oils owned by Major 
John V. Burke was executed by a Mrs. Spencer, who had some 
local fame, in 1867; it is not considered a good likeness by the 
family; and, although Burke never could have been a par¬ 
ticularly good-looking man, it is difficult to believe that his 
face was so smooth and characterless as the painting repre¬ 
sents it. In the hall of the Pioneer Society rooms there hangs 
a tremendous, panoramic lithograph having for its subject 
“General Taylor at Buena Vista.” Old “Rough-and- 
Ready” is there depicted on his famous white horse, postur¬ 
ing in the middle with his brigade-commanders and aides 
disposed throughout the landscape in a variety of swashbuck¬ 
ling attitudes. They are all numbered and labeled in the 
margin; and one with a cocked hat, curling side-whiskers and 
an engaging smile, caught in the act of running a Mexican 
through, is noted in the index as “Col. N. Burke.” Un- 


Xll 


INTRODUCTION 


fortunately, however, Burke was never known to wear a 
cocked hat or curly side-whiskers in his life, and moreover was 
not a colonel at this time, and did not serve at Buena Vista, 
being several hundred miles off in another part of Mexico; so 
we may fairly set this portrait down as not authentic. 

I take the opportunity of expressing my thanks to Mr. W. 
P. Saunders, Librarian of the State Society of Antiquarian 
Research, to Mr. Lyman Alcott, President of the Pioneers’ 
Association, and to Mr. Benjamin Howard of the Daily 
Press for their kindness in allowing and assisting me to ex¬ 
amine the records of their societies and the back-files of the 
Press; to Mr. Samuel Gwynne Stevens and to Mr. Horace 
Gwynne, Jr., for the loan of family manuscripts, and to Miss 
Frances Burke for help in deciphering some of her grand¬ 
father’s papers. 

Mary S. Watts. 

Cincinnati, Ohio, 

April 1, 1908. 


NATHAN BURKE 




NATHAN BURKE 


CHAPTER I 

In which Mr. Burke begins the World 

A man’s memory, be it ever so exact and vigorous, is, at 
best, an unstable sort of tool, or, if that figure does not 
please, let me liken it to an unbiddable servant, forever 
fetching us the wrong thing, or refusing to fetch at all, or 
going capering off with a childish futility, on some back¬ 
ward trail, led by a sound, a scent, a passing glance. As I 
sat here, addressing myself to the more or less serious task 
of recording Nathan Burke’s career and history, and quite 
resolute to begin where all biographers should, at the begin¬ 
ning, my servant (to pursue the allegory) went clean dis¬ 
tracted at the opening of a window near by, the entering 
fragrance of lilacs, and the view of a few blossoming fruit 
trees in a neighboring yard, shaken and dismantled by the 
sweet fresh gales of spring. These trifles sharply recalled 
another day, another spring, a yard not unlike this of my 
neighbor’s, with just such a handsome sober house set in the 
middle of it; and looking out in the direction of the woodshed 
whence proceeded a lusty sound of whistling, I beheld, upon 
my soul, the living counterpart and image of Mr. Burke as 
he was upwards of forty years ago, in the person of the 
hired man jauntily swinging an axe upon a pile of stove 
wood! Burke chops a little decorously in his own wood¬ 
shed nowadays for his health, and his own chore-boy smil¬ 
ingly humors the old gentleman, admires the symmetry of 
his kindlings, and pointedly expresses grave doubts whether 
he (the boy) could get through his duties without the general’s 
stout assistance. He is unconscious that the latter, beneath 
a surface pleasantry, conceals reserves of gall; some day 

B 1 


2 


NATHAN BURKE 


Mr. Burke means to be revenged on this patronizing menial. 
Some day he will burst out and say: “Young man, when 
I was your age — which I take to be seventeen or so, by 
the exceedingly wide register of your rather unmanageable 
voice, and the vernal display of small blooms upon your 
countenance — yes, when I was two years younger, I was 
twice the chore-boy you are, for all your airs ! I could milk 
a cow, or harness a horse, or fell a tree with any man in 
the county. To be sure I was only getting twelve dollars 
a month and my keep for all these accomplishments, whereas 
you get (you do not by any means earn) twenty-five or 
more — but times are changed. Flaccid product of civili¬ 
zation that you are — ” the chore-boy will estimate this 
as some fearfully and wonderfully recondite “cuss-word” — 
“ what are your recollections and experiences at seventeen 
compared to mine at the same age ? An ignoble record of 
hooky-playing, orchard-robbing, surreptitious gambling and 
tobacco-smoking constitutes all your romance. Did you 
ever shoot deer with an old 1 Tower’ musket that was 
carried in the War of 1812 ? Did you ever go fishing and 
trapping with Jake Darnell — Jake Darnell who knew Mad 
Anthony Wayne, and had scouted with Daniel Boone ? Go 
to! Ell lay a double eagle to a shin-plaster, sir, that you 
never even heard of the Alamo — I, I who speak to you, 
can remember when it didn’t surrender!” The chore-boy 
will listen respectfully, and will afterwards be overheard 
remarking to the boy next door that he wouldn’t wonder 
if th’ old gin’ral was breakin’ up fast, Hank. He don’t ack 
nachul. You’d oughta heard him th’ other day blowin’ 
around ’bout what he used to could do when he was my 
size. ’Tain’t like him, not a bit! 

No, it would not be much like him, even in his present 
state of senile decrepitude, at the age of sixty odd; those 
words will never be spoken, as much for Burke’s own sake 
as for yours, oh, pimpled, crowing, squeaking, awkward, 
kind-hearted chore-boy ! Surely it is no longer ago than 
last month, last week, yesterday, that Nat Burke, pimpled, 
crowing, squeaking, awkward, and I hope kind-hearted 
even as you, was set down out of the farm wagon at Mr. 
William Ducey’s gate on a spring morning, bright and windy 
even as this, to enter upon his first job. The doleful truth 


MR. BURKE BEGINS THE WORLD 


3 


is that it was in the year of Grace 183—; though, as Nat 
kept no journal of his daily doings at that time, his utmost 
accomplishment in the clerkly way being his own name — 
in print letters — the actual date of his arrival must remain 
unknown. He had got up at dawn, the cool, blowing, pink- 
skied dawn of an April day; from the tiny window in the 
peak of the cabin-loft that was Nat’s bedchamber, and 
from the bench beside the back door, where with a bucket 
of icy well water he performed his toilet, the boy could see 
a bit of black bottom-land where wheat his own hand had 
sown last autumn was beginning to show tenderly; beyond 
were the flat shining links of the river and the woody slopes 
of its farther bank. The trees were still leafless; they lay 
like a wreath of smoke about the landscape, pricked out with 
purple here and there where the red buds were coming into 
bloom. The service-bush had sprung to life, miraculously, 
over night, and now timidly shook out a handful of its frail 
green-white blossoms on the edge of the deadening. A thou¬ 
sand odors, growth and decay commingled, starting grass 
and rotting leaves, were in the air; a kind of newness in 
the feel of the stable-mire under foot as Nathan went squelch¬ 
ing through it. Moisture that was not frost, but real dew, 
like the dew of summer, glistened on the fence rails, on the 
shingles of the cabin and its environing sheds and lean-tos. 
They were not rich in architectural detail, and Nathan knew 
them as he knew the lines of his palm; since he was born 
he had opened and closed his eyes morning and evening 
upon a scene that varied only with the seasons. To-day he 
was conscious of no more acute vision than at other times; 
knowingly, at least, he made no effort to impress the kind 
and homely picture on his memory. Yet to the end of his 
life he will remember it as he saw it then: the logs of the 
cabin chinked with clay, the smoke from its chimney, the 
squirrel that chittered on the fence, the tapped sugar- 
maple hard by, with a little wooden gutter to lead the sap 
into the broken crock between its roots, the bird that sent 
a ringing call from its topmost branches, the very look and 
motion of the old mare by the straw-rick, still shaggy with 
her winter coat, raising her wise head to watch him, her 
foal staring not at all wisely for a moment, then flinging up 
its knock-kneed legs in an inane caracole and circling around 


4 


NATHAN BURKE 


in a fit of coltish good spirits. Is it because on this morn¬ 
ing Nathan began the world ? He put the event to himself 
in no such high, resounding terms; he would have told you 
concisely — for he was not then and never became a par - 
ticularly free talker — that he had got a job by the month, 
choring for Mr. William Ducey. And as to entering upon 
his career, Nat would scarcely have supposed that splitting 
kindlings, washing carriages, making gardens, and cutting 
grass merited so fine a name; for all that, the day and scene 
abide monumentally among his recollections, and have out¬ 
lasted a score of others better worth remembering. 

It was some fifteen miles to town, which Nathan proposed 
to trudge between sunrise and eight o’clock. At this season 
the back-country road would be none of the best, as he knew; 
in places along the river-bottoms it would be almost knee- 
deep in mud. But to cross over to the east and take the 
State Road would mean an extra five miles, and he would not 
gain enough either in time or ease of walking to make it 
worth his while. Without doubt he liked the river road, 
stones and mud, hill and hollow, a deal better. It had been 
a trail in Indian days, and they were not so distant, nor the 
frontier itself so remote in the thirties but that some hint 
of the pioneer’s wild and bloody romance might yet hang 
about his ancient path to attract the feet of a boy. Indeed, 
Nathan loved his river with the shy and speechless sentiment 
of his fifteen years; he had been born and brought up on its 
banks, had fished and hunted along its every turn, gone 
swimming in its every basin; even its pretty and flowing 
Indian name obscurely charmed him. To this day he calls it 
to mind with a sort of pleasant pang; he has seen the Niagara 
and the Mississippi, and the streams of many great lands — 
but are not the Scioto and the Olentanjy, rivers of Ohio, 
better than all alien waters ? 

So Nat, the route decided upon, set about his preparations 
cheerily; they were not very elaborate, for they consisted 
mainly in the handy looping together on a leather thong of 
his one pair of cowhide boots, so that they might hang 
around his neck, and not impede his walking by being on his 
feet. It was quite warm enough, in Nat’s opinion, to go 
without boots, and when he got near town, where it behooved 
him to make a dressy appearance, he would put them on. 


MR. BURKE BEGINS THE WORLD 


5 


The rest of his wardrobe — a clean calico shirt and a pair of 
knit yarn socks — he carried in a bundle. He had hesi¬ 
tated a little about taking his gun, that same famous old 
musket that had belonged to his father, and had smote 
Britishers, hip and thigh, and redskins likewise in Tecumseh’s 
battles, not to mention all its other heroic and notable deeds, 
before Nathan was born; it seemed as if there would be no 
especial point in lugging this formidable piece of artillery 
about amongst the supine population of the city. What 
possible use could Mr. Ducey’s hired man have for a gun ? 
Yet he was loath to leave it; he had for it the unreasoning 
fondness that every one must feel for a faithful tool. And 
while he was turning the question in his mind, Mrs. Williams 
settled it for him once for all, by taking the weapon down 
from where it hung on the cabin wall out of reach of the chil¬ 
dren, and handing it to him half an hour later, beautifully 
swabbed and polished, the lock oiled, the barrel rubbed until 
the delicate arabesque traceries upon the steel quivered with 
reflections in the sun like a riffle in the Scioto. “ Better not 
load it, Nathan,” was all she said. “S’long as you’re goin’ 
where there’s folks.” 

“I wasn’t goin’ to take it — I thought mebbe they’d be 
skeered of me,” said Nathan, thanking her awkwardly. 

“I guess not — anybody that had any sense’d know th’ 
kind of boy you are,” said Mrs. Williams, briefly. “It was 
yer pa’s gun, an’ you’d oughter have it — you ain’t got much. 
An’ ther’s no use leavin’ it here to git knocked ’round, cuz 
you won’t ever come back.” 

“Why, yes, I will so. I’m goin’ to come back some day — 
some day soon” declared the boy, surprised. She gave a 
kind of negative twitch with her head and shoulders, and 
turned back to the skillet of pork frying over the coals. The 
wide glare from the hearth beat upon her gaunt, big-boned 
frame, the lank folds of her faded print dress, the gnarled 
hand she put up to shade her eyes as she stooped over her 
task. She was not yet thirty, as Nathan knew, but she had 
hardly a tooth left and looked as old as Methuselah, as old 
as her own mother, old woman Darce, sitting yonder in the 
chimney-corner mumbling the stem of her pipe. It was diffi¬ 
cult to believe that either one of them could ever have been a 
girl like Jake Darnell’s Nance, for instance — she was almost 


6 


NATHAN BURKE 


the only girl whom Nathan knew, and he pondered over the 
comparison, eying Mrs. Williams gravely. For the first 
time in his life it occurred to him to wonder that all women 
should be either pretty young girls or weather-beaten and 
broken old hags; in his experience of the sex there were only 
the two varieties. Thirty seemed to him then a prodigious 
antiquity; he was vaguely sorry for Mrs. Williams. Per¬ 
haps some conception of the sad ugliness of her existence 
entered the boy’s mind; she would have been the last person 
in the world to pity herself, but suddenly Nathan perceived 
a painful unfairness in the fact that here he was going away 
to the city with all its wonders — for, after all, the city is the 
city, and even for a hired man, even for a sober-thinking lad 
like Nat Burke, replete with diversions and novelties — and 
poor Mrs. Williams must stay on changelessly, doing the same 
work, seeing the same things, day after day, year in and year 
out. In later times Burke recalled with some amusement the 
brilliant perspective this fifteen-mile journey opened for him; 
but fifteen miles in those days was to the backwoods as a 
hundred now; and for that matter it still seems to me that 
in every journey, even in the last great journey of all, he that 
travels has the best of it, and the heartache is to those that 
are left behind. 

Nat went out and conscientiously fed and watered the stock 
on this last morning, brought in a pail of milk, and drew one 
of water for Mrs. Williams, according to his wont. ’Liph 
Williams, observing this, commented jocosely upon it as they 
sat down to breakfast. “ Thought ye was Ducey’s hired 
man now, Nat,” he said. “Changed yer mind, hey? I 
can’t give ye no twelve dollars a month, y’know. Yer 
keep’s all ye’ve been wuth to me so far. So ye’d better think 
twicet, and not carry no more water, ner milk no more cows 
than ye hev’ to.” 

“’Tain’t nothin’ but what I’d orter do, ’long as I ain’t 
goin’ to be here after this,” said Nathan, somewhat abashed. 
“I done it fer — fer good-by. That old well’s pretty hard to 
git water up from — fer womenfolks, I mean.” 

Williams laughed. “Ye wanter look out, Nathan; ye’re 
th’ kind that gits put upon.” 

“Th’ well’s all right, Nathan. ’Tain’t no trouble fer me,” 
said Mrs. Williams, harshly. She got up hastily from the 


MR. BURKE BEGINS THE WORLD 


7 


table and began to clatter among her pots and pans, turning 
her back on the company. Nat was so far from suspecting 
that anybody could possibly miss him, or feel a regret at his 
going, that, noticing her flushed face and puffy eyelids a little 
while after when he took his leave, he set them down to the 
heat of the fire over which she had been bending. It was 
not a tragic farewell; the struggle — itself stern and serious 
enough — for a mere living among backwoods folk almost 
exhausted their capacity for emotion; they had little leisure 
for the expression of either joy or sorrow, pain or pleasure. 
The great and moving events of life came to them like the 
seasons of the year; and their hard philosophy recognized 
that these things, like the seasons, whether good or bad, were 
ineluctable yet sure to change. Whatever tenderness Mrs. 
Williams felt for Nathan, whatever rough friendship had 
grown up between the boy and ’Liph during the years of their 
life together, not one of them would have been able to give 
it voice; the purple patch would have disconcerted them all. 
“Wish ye luck, Nat,” the farmer said shortly, yet with a real 
kindness, and went off to his plough. So fine a morning could 
not be wasted in useless ceremonies; almost before Nathan 
had reached the road he could hear ’Liph shouting lustily 
behind his horses in the corn-field back of the cabin. Mrs. 
Williams, however, came to the door, and watched him as he 
strode confidently away. “He won’t ever come back, 
’cep’n mebbe to see us oncet,” she said aloud. “Well —” 
she went resolutely into the house. Nat himself, to be 
truthful, departed without much of a pang. He had some 
trouble in ordering back the dog, who came bouncing after 
him under the mistaken impression that a gun and a bundle 
meant, as usual, all day in the woods, and perhaps wild tur¬ 
key or quail. He lacked the discernment to distinguish one 
game-season from another, or a musket from a shot-gun, and 
was confounded at the roughness of his welcome. Nathan 
had to stamp, to bawl furiously, finally to make the motion 
of stooping for a stone and throwing it (he had not the heart 
to perform that unkind and unjust action in reality) before 
the creature could understand him. It stopped still with its 
head on one side, eying him, tentatively wagging, grinning 
doggishly, and wrinkling its brows in interrogation; then 
retreated slowly, drooping and reproachful. 


8 


NATHAN BURKE 


Nat went on in a kind of sober lightness of heart; he was a 
quiet boy, and, even at fifteen, felt no disposition to celebrate 
his entrance into manhood — for was he not Ducey’s hired 
man ? — by any undue demonstrations. Another boy in his 
place might have been whistling and shying pebbles at the 
robins and squirrels; but Nathan was too much of a sports¬ 
man for the latter amiable pursuit; if he took the trouble to 
notice a squirrel or robin at all, it was because he meant to 
shoot it for supper. And as to whistling, he could not carry 
a tune to save his life, and his whistle resembled in strength 
and melody the sound made by an ungreased cart-wheel. 
Knowing the distance he must go, he settled down into the 
long, ungraceful lope of the backwoodsman, which gets over 
the ground with amazing rapidity and the least possible fa¬ 
tigue; and in an hour or so sighted Jake Darnell’s cabin on 
the bluff above the river. There was smoke coming from the 
chimney, but no other sign of activity about the raw, littered 
yard, or the neglected corn-patch by the roadside, although 
the day was already pretty well advanced according to 
Nathan’s reckoning. Approaching he caught a gleam of 
scarlet by the door and saw Nance feeding half a dozen hens 
from a pan of corn-meal mush. Nathan paused, not at the 
gate for there was none, but in an angle of the sagging rail 
fence, and Nance came slowly towards him, shooing the chick¬ 
ens from under her feet. 

“Goin’ ?” she queried without other salutation, taking in 
at a single flashing glance the boots, the gun, the bundle, and 
the import of all three. She put down the pan on a conven¬ 
ient stump, leaned against it with her arms folded, kicked 
a chicken out of the way, and surveyed Nathan from top to 
toe keenly. “ When d’ye ’low ye’ll git to Ducey’s, Nat ?” 

“’Bout th’ middle of th’ forenoon, I expect. Yer pap 
wouldn’t be goin’, would he ? He said he might need powder 
’n’ shot by this time.” 

“ Well, he don’t,” said Nance, decisively. She cast a sharp 
look over her shoulder at the house. “Did ye wanter see 
him ?” 

“Not unless he’s handy,” Nathan said. “I — I thought 
I’d jest like to say thanky to him for gittin’ me th’ place with 
Duceys. I ain’t had a chance to tell him so. Hadn’t ’a’ been 
fer him, I don’t guess they’d ever known anything ’bout me. ” 


MR. BURKE BEGINS THE WORLD 


0 


“Oh, I reckon pap didn’t strain himself,” said Nance. 
“Ye’re welcome to whatever he done er said. Ye can’t see 
him this mornin’, anyhow. He’s plumb full — full’s a tick. 
Come home last night so’s he couldn’t hardly stand up. I 
hed to make him a kinder pallet on th’ floor. Ye know he’s 
been up in Hardin County shootin’, an’ he got a kinder 
runty little she-deer, wan’t much bigger’n a six-weeks calf — 
th’ way they git along towards th’ end of th’ winter, y’know 
— an’ he took and sold it fer three dollars over at th’ cross¬ 
roads, an’ come home with most of it inside him, I guess; 
leastways they wan’t but two bits in his pockets when I 
went through ’em. I’ve seen him wuss drunk, though; he’ll 
be out of it by sundown, ’cordin’ to th’ signs. / know him.” 
She gave these data with a sort of detached almost profes¬ 
sional unconcern, and finished with a wide hearty yawn, 
showing a row of teeth small, even, and white, like grains of 
Indian corn. “I git sorter tired, times, settin’ up waitin’ 
fer him,” she explained, with no slightest trace of complaint 
in her tone, however. 

Nathan looked at her with a feeling remotely akin to pity. 
He must have been in something of a melting mood that 
morning, for he had never before given any consideration to 
the lot or character of Mrs. Williams, of Nance Darnell, of any¬ 
body on earth, even himself. At this distance of time I cannot 
judge the boy impartially; yet I like to think that some hu¬ 
mane and kindly spirit was beginning to stir faintly within 
him. “It’s kinder hard on ye, Nance, hevin’ yer pa git drunk 
so often —” 

“Why ? He never lays a hand on me,” said the girl. The 
red flushed hotly over her dark, rich-colored face; her big 
black eyes blazed; she looked at Nathan almost vengefully. 
“He’s as good as gold, pap is; whoever says he ain’t, lies! 
I’d a heap ruther hev’ pap drunk than some other folks’ 
fathers sober, I tell ye!” 

“I didn’t mean that way,” said Nathan, clumsily, a little 
cloudy in his own mind as to what he did mean. “I wasn’t 
sayin’ anything agin yer father — he’s too good a friend to 
me fer that. Only seems as if you’d be better off if he didn’t 
take too much, times.” 

“Well, it’s nat’ral to a man to drink, I guess,” said Nance, 
tolerantly. “ Don’ know how you’re goin’ to stop ’em. Pap 


10 


NATHAN BURKE 


ain't like some, swillin' jest fer th' taste. He don't keer 
nothin' 'bout th' taste — he jest does it to feel good. Pap 
ain't no hog." 

There appeared to Nathan also a species of distorted virtue 
in this trait of Jake Darnell's. He was nowise amused or 
taken aback by Nance's fierce loyalty, although there were 
other times when he could not comprehend the girl. The 
very next moment she surprised him by bursting out with: 
“Oh, Nathan, ain't th' day jest — jest — !" In default of 
vocabulary she made a sweeping gesture with her lithe strong 
arms, and drew in a long breath. “Seems like I could jest 
holler, 'cause I'm alive! Look at th' sarvis-bush over there. 
Say, do you know what it puts me in mind of ? It puts me 
in mind of a little Injun girl hidin' an' peekin' an' kinder 
'fraid to come out." 

“You always hev' such fancy notions, Nance," said the 
boy, wonderingly. 

“I dunno what makes me hev' 'em — mebbe everybody 
does, only they don't come out an’ say 'em like I do," she said 
and laughed, giving him a quick conscious glance. In fact, 
Nance with her odd violent changes of mood, her spurts of 
temper, her open display of feeling, was an exotic figure 
amongst her surroundings; and Nathan, as narrow as was 
his experience, was already dimly aware of it. Mrs. Wil¬ 
liams, he thought, might indeed have been a girl once, but 
could she ever have been a girl like Nance Darnell ? 

“Mis' Williams is real sorry ye’re goin', Nat," she said, 
hitting neatly upon the subject of his thoughts by one of 
those uncanny chances with which we are all familiar. “ She 
was cryin' th' other day when we was talkin' 'bout it. She 
'lowed she set as much store by you, 's 'f you was her own 
son." 

Nathan crimsoned and stuttered, incoherent with surprise. 
He felt the shock of pleasure succeeded by a potent anxiety 
with which we make the discovery that somebody is fond of 
us; it is a responsibility to have somebody fond of you. 

“I'm goin' to come back an' see you all every time I git a 
chance," he said. “I told her so." 

“S'posin' ye don't git th' place after all, Nat? S’posin’ 
Ducey's hired somebody else ?" 

“Oh, I don't reckon he'd do that," said Nathan, confi- 


MR. BURKE BEGINS THE WORLD 


11 


dently. “He told yer pap he was set on gittin’ a reg’lar 
country-boy that’d know all ’bout country -things, so’s he 
wouldn’t hev’ to teach him nothin’. I guess that’s me. I 
don’t know nothin’ else,’’ he added humorously. ‘‘ When yer 
pap’s in town, he’ll come ’round an’ see me, won’t he ?” 

“If he don’t git nothin’ to drink first,” said Nance. “Next 
time he goes I’m goin’ with him. I kin keep him straight. 
’Cause, ye know, he always gives me th’ money right off that 
he gits fer th’ quail, er rabbit, er th’ varmints’ pelts he’s got 
to sell, an’ then I spend it fer what we need. That’s th’ only 
way to do with pap — jest spend his money before he gits 
holt of a whiskey-jug, er they won’t be any to spend. I found 
out that quick’s I commenced goin’ to town with him. That 
was last year some time, y’know. I been three-four times 
here lately.” 

Nathan was interested; he had been only once himself. 
“Did ye ever see Mr. Ducey, Nance ?” 

She nodded. “Lord, yes! Pap goes to th’ store every 
time he’s got anything to sell, you know. ’Tain’t Ducey’s 
store, it’s Mr. Marsh’s, too; leastways th’ old man is gin’rally 
’round somewheres. I guess he does most of the tradin’. 
I’ve seen Mis’ Ducey, too, Nathan.” Her face lit up with the 
recollection. It was another of those outbreaks of enthu¬ 
siasm that so transfigured Nance; her eyes glowed; there 
was something at once brilliant and tender in her expression. 
“ Oh, Nathan, you’d oughter see her! Never mind — you’re 
goin’ to. My, I wisht it was me! She’s jest —” again the 
lack of words defeated her. “She’s got blue eyes, an’ th’ 
least little teenty hands — like a coon’s paws, only they’re 
white ’stid of black — white like snow — but kinder cunnin’ 
that same way coons’ paws is, I mean. An’ her hair jest as 
yaller, an’ fine like corn-silk!” She paused in a strange 
ecstacy of admiration. Nathan was too accustomed to her 
to be greatly impressed by this flight; he had seen her crazed 
in the same fashion over a nest of birds’ eggs, a pet calf, a 
wild rose in bloom — any one of a dozen headlong fancies. 
The phrase is misleading; for, as Nathan came to recognize 
in later years, not the least curious thing about Nance was 
that she was steadfast in her wild devotion and clung heroic¬ 
ally to her idols. 

“Well, if I’m ever to see Mis’ Ducey, I’d better be gittin’ 


12 


NATHAN BURKE 


along, I think,” he said, and fell back a step or two into the 
road. “ Good-by, Nance. Tell yer pap I stopped in to 
tell him thanky, will you ?” 

“Pap didn’t do nothin’,” repeated the girl, “’cep’n jest 
say he knowed a good stiddy boy that could shoot er ketch 
fish ekal to himself, and —” 

“ No! Did he say that ? ’ ’ said Nathan, pleased. Then he 
grinned. “I dunno as that’s jest what Ducey wants,” he 
remarked ; “but Jake done what he could fer me, anyhow.” 

He swung into the road; and Nance returned to her chick¬ 
en-feeding, and the other housewifely duties that somehow 
suited her so ill, although she performed them briskly and 
capably enough. Where his path crossed the next bit of 
rising ground, Nathan looked back and caught the flicker of 
her red calico gown glancing like a flame about the dark in¬ 
terior of the cabin. 


CHAPTER II 


In which Mr. Burke’s Pedigree comes under 
Discussion 

When the city of Monterey fell to the American arms in 
September of 1846, and General Ampudia marched out, there 
was found among the sick and disabled left behind (according 
to the Mexican habit) an Irish officer of Torrejon’s staff, who 
had been wounded by a musket-ball in the thigh while assist¬ 
ing — with the most signal courage and resolution — in the 
defence of the redoubt they called Rincon del Diablo , on the 
second day of the fighting. That he was of an alien race 
need surprise nobody, for his country has sent just such sol¬ 
diers of fortune, brave, able, shiftless, and light-hearted, 
to every army on the face of the globe. This gentleman’s 
name was Bourke, and he happened to be taken up and cared 
for by an officer of one of the United States volunteer regi¬ 
ments for whom he subsequently professed — and without 
doubt sincerely felt at the time — the warmest gratitude and 
affection. “We arre — w 7 e must be — related, an’ the ties 
of blood arre sthrong, me bye,” he would say touchingly — 
indeed with tears in his eyes — after the third or fourth tum¬ 
bler of that raw brandy of the country which the sutlers some¬ 
how found means, against the severest penalties, to smuggle 
into camp; “ye were dthrawn to me at wance, an’ me to you. 
To be sure, I’d as soon have expicted to meet an Irishman 
named Abednego as wan named Nathan, but ye were doubt¬ 
less christened from the other side of the house.” And on 
the strength of this kinship, he borrowed Captain Burke’s 
money, wore his clothes, rode his horse, and made himself 
free of his quarters in a style which the captain would 
scarcely have looked for from an own brother. If this 
authority was to be believed, the Bourke or Burke family 
made their appearance on this planet some time prior to 
Adam and Eve, Nathan’s immediate ancestors came to Amer- 

13 


14 


NATHAN BURKE 


ica with Christopher Columbus — “and bedad, Nat, your 
forefathers were kings in Connaught whin Prisident Polk’s 
were swingin’ be their tails!” To which Captain Burke 
replied rather dryly that as between swinging by the tail and 
swinging by the neck, he was quite certain which he should 
choose; but that the Burkes of antiquity might have swung 
by both ends for aught he knew, being ignorant even of their 
names. Of recent years, Nathan, recalling the conversa¬ 
tion, has wondered once or twice where this exile of Erin got 
his Darwinian figure of speech, as the theory was not gener¬ 
ally familiar in that day; ,but it is too late to ask him now. 
After the exchange of prisoners he disappeared from Burke’s 
horizon, and when last heard of, had taken service with the 
Khedive; he may be a dey, a bey, a pasha of ever so many 
tails by this time. 

Mr. Burke never gave a thought to following up that 
shadowy relationship, nor felt much desire to investigate the 
family-tree, which, judging by this and sundry other speci¬ 
mens of what it bears, must be a somewhat decayed and 
tottering old vegetable at the present date. For a good 
many years of his life — until, in fact, he was a man grown 
and certain events had caused the matter of birth and de¬ 
scent to assume larger proportions in his view — Nathan 
knew only that his father’s name was John Burke, his moth¬ 
er’s, Mary Granger; the responsibility of a family reputation 
was one which he never had to support, for no boy was ever 
more alone in the world. Mary Burke died the day after 
her only child was born; the father was drowned while spear¬ 
ing fish through the ice on the Scioto River when Nathan was 
a bare two years old. Like everybody else in the settlement, 
they came from somewhere in the older States — Pennsyl¬ 
vania— Virginia — nobody could say with certainty; the 
pioneers, unless they chanced to have migrated from the same 
place, seldom knew much about one another’s antecedents, 
and had no leisure to inquire. Nathan could remember 
neither of these parents, nor any home except that of ’Liph 
Williams, who had added the fatherless and motherless child 
to his own already numerous brood, from no affection nor 
sense of duty, for Nathan had not the least claim upon him, 
but out of that abounding rough charity and generosity 
characteristic of his class. The Williamses were poor, hard- 


MR. BURKE’S PEDIGREE 


15 


working people, but they took Nat in, fed him, clothed him, 
nursed him through half a dozen childish ailments, did their 
simple best for him without ever asking or expecting recom¬ 
pense. The thing is not unusual; it happens every day. 
Poor Tom dies and poorer Dick promptly takes up the burden 
of Tom’s widow and children; lame Harry stumbles into the 
ditch, and some ragged Samaritan hauls him out; yonder 
beggar shares his crust with somebody, if it be only a dog, and 
gnaws with a greater relish for having done so. Let the 
cynics who refuse to see aught of admirable or touching in 
the spectacle of humanity so great, so little, so mean, so noble, 
so infinitely laughable and pathetic, let them listen to one 
man at least who has found the world the best and kindest 
of places, and met with a thousand good turns for one 
evil. 

So now the truth is out, and we are come at last to that 
proper beginning of an autobiography I promised on the first 
page. I think too highly of Nathan Burke’s descendants to 
suppose for a moment that they could be ashamed of the dis¬ 
covery that their grandfather at the outset of his career was 
a coarse country boy, barely able to count, not over-familiar 
with the spelling-book, wholly ignorant of what we call 
manners, the small courtesies of which we profess to make so 
little, yet which we, in our hearts, respect so much. But the 
feeling with which I myself look back upon those years is, I 
fear, not untinged with shame. I had as lief have begun life 
with a more elaborate equipment, and often think: to what 
heights had I not climbed, could I have had a better start! 
It is a feebleness I share with many, weak and strong. There 
was a wise Frenchman who once said: “I do not know what 
the heart of a rascal may be. I know what the heart of an 
honest man is; it is horrible.” I humbly trust mine is not 
so; yet I know that of myself which I should shrink and 
wither up at the mere notion of confessing to any one. Yes, I 
have waked at night, and cringed among the bedclothes, and 
blushed in the darkness, and tossed my respectable old gray 
head upon the pillow at the recollection of those moments of 
weakness, those sneaking faults and follies. Is there a man 
on earth who has not done the like ? If I ask my children to 
spare me the recital of these things, I do not ask them to 
believe me perfect. In the autobiographies of fiction — 


16 


NATHAN BURKE 


to say nothing of some real ones 1 — they get enough of dreary 
virtuous twaddle from the hero, enough of preposterous sham 
unconsciousness to stale their taste for perfection, it seems to 
me. Let us have an end of all the mouthing and attitudiniz¬ 
ing; the best of us can be no better than a plain man that 
tries to do his duty. There was a fashion — now, happily, 
on the wane — of writing about our American deeds and men 
as if both were not only above censure but almost too high 
for praise. All our orators were Demosthenes — all our law¬ 
givers Solon — all our generals Napoleon. I remember 
somebody published about the year ’55 a short account of 
Mr. Polk’s administration, containing the following sketch of 
General Worth, whom I knew slightly in Mexico. My friend, 
James Sharpless, having come upon it in the course of his 
reviewing for the Daily News , brought it to me, acridly smil¬ 
ing, with pencillings about the paragraph, marking it down 
for slaughter: “He possessed the ardor and impetuosity of 
Murat, the bravery and inflexible determination of Ney, the 
ability and judgment of Massena, and the bearing and frank¬ 
ness of Macdonald.” “Murat, Ney, Massena, Macdonald! 
Whew!!!” Jim wrote underneath it. Worth himself al¬ 
ready abode in decent silence under the monument in Madi¬ 
son Square with “Honor the brave” above his gallant old 
bones; he would have been the first to laugh at that Whew of 
Jimmie’s, I think. What did the fluent author of that gust- 
of rhetoric know of Murat or Ney ? Nothing at all; this 
braying and bragging was in the taste of the day, and all 
of us did not approve of it, we still had to stand it. The 
habit of fustian -was something worse than comical or con¬ 
temptible; it wrought an actual harm, as I have found out 
since entering upon this task. There have been whole shelves, 
whole libraries of histories and biographies of those times 
written, not one word of which, I swear, is free from suspi¬ 
cion; pages of clap-trap sentiment, tin-foil eloquence, cheap, 
glittering bombast, alternate with pages of misstatements and 
inaccuracies. An honest man burns with shame at the read¬ 
ing. Twiggs was the Hero of This, Pierce was the Hero of 

1 In the margin Burke has written: “ Just finished reading Win¬ 
field Scott’s autobiog. All bosh. And some of it d - dliesl” He 

had an extraordinary and entirely unjust prejudice against General 
Scott; the journal shows it repeatedly. — M. S. W. 


MR. BURKE'S PEDIGREE 


17 


That, your humble servant, very likely, was the Hero of 
T'other. As if any one of us did more than his position and 
his own self-respect called upon him to do, or was one whit 
more heroic than the plainest private in his regiment! My 
classic learning is too scanty to assure me if the Muse of His¬ 
tory is represented with a trumpet; but if so, the lady had 
better exchange it for a pair of spectacles, to my notion. 
Burke's children, at least, shall not be left to read this windy 
rubbish and imagine it reflects what either the American 
people at large, or the hard, brave, simple men I knew, 
thought and believed. 

Were it not, indeed, for the opinions expressed with some¬ 
what of volcanic warmth in that last paragraph, I am un¬ 
certain that I should have undertaken so solemn a business 
as this writing at all. My grandson, — and much I doubt 
whether he will ever weary through his grandfather's auto¬ 
biography! — being a brisk youngster of six or thereabouts, 
has been enjoined not to make a noise when he observes me 
to be busied with the pen. The prohibition is more severe 
upon me than him, for whereas he frequently forgets it alto¬ 
gether, I have it constantly in mind that I am playing the 
ungracious part of a grandfatherly bogie, especially made for 
the blighting of little boys. He sometimes inquires with an 
appearance of interest which by no means deceives me, how 
long it will be before the “story" is finished, and if it tells 
about when I was only as big as he, and did I kill Indians 
when I was “in the woods”? This fulfils his ideal of a 
career and a hero, and I grieve both to disappoint him and to 
lose prestige in his eyes. But, sad to say, the Indians were 
all dead and gone in that part of the world before my day, 
though they were active and virulent enough elsewhere 
farther west and in the south; and there will be no tomahawk¬ 
ing, nor warwhooping to enliven the page. The Nat Burke 
I knew when he was our little Nat's age slept safe and sound 
and removed from all danger of losing his young scalp in the 
loft over the Williamses' cabin, with three or four of the Wil¬ 
liams lads for bedfellows. He wore 'Liph's old pantaloons cut 
down to suit his own small shanks; he got up at dawn and 
went to bed with the chickens; he greatly delighted in corn- 
meal mush fried in cakes and eaten with maple-syrup. He 
trudged three miles to the district school — when there was 
c 


18 


NATHAN BURKE 


a teacher — and three miles back; and I am afraid did not 
profit to a high degree by these intermittent journeys to the 
fountain-head of learning. He esteemed much the privilege 
of going hunting with Jake Darnell — and, in fact, it was a 
privilege and a lesson in the antique and noble art of the 
woodsman which Jake did not accord to every boy. Many 
people would have considered that profane and drunken old 
Nimrod not the choicest associate in the world for a growing 
child; but, even in the worst sodden stages of his favorite 
vice, where, alas, Nathan saw him often enough, I cannot 
think his company harmed the lad. The breath of the 
backwoods is pure; there was, when all was said, something 
fine and clean and becoming to a man in the primitive ways 
by which Darnell got his living. And if his example did not 
teach Nathan industry and self-control, I ask you, in fair¬ 
ness, is there any example that does teach them ? The seed 
may, perhaps, be sown, but you and I must be the gardeners. 
Jake had known Nat’s father and mother; he had for Nat 
himself one of those unaccountable fancies, fanatically enthu¬ 
siastic, yet steady and enduring, to which his daughter Nance 
was so prone; he was as pleased the day Nat shot his first wild 
turkey, and as absurdly proud of that feat, as the boy himself. 
According to his simple views he predicted great things for 
his young companion. “I’ll make a scout of ye,” he used to 
say in moments of elation; “ye got jest th’ eye fer it, Na¬ 
than, jest th’ eye, an’ th’ nerve. ’Tain’t jest grit fer fightin’, 
I mean — any fool’s got that; its patience, an’ it’s th’ 
know -how, an’ th’ know -when — them’s what counts. Cou- 
reur de bois, that’s what they call ’em up north-a-way, up to 
th’ Lakes. I been there. That’s French, what I said jest 
now; I kin talk it, y’know. Ye got to — an’ talk Injun too 
— two-three kinds of Injun talk — if you’re scoutin’. Yes — 
oh, Lord, yes, I been there. Ever tell ye ’bout Fort Meigs ? 
Ever tell ye ’bout Fort Stephenson ? It’s twenty year this 
summer. Th’ Gin’ral — Gin’ral Harrison — sent me down 
th’ Sandusky River with a letter to Major Croghan that was 
commanding at Fort Stephenson — ’twan’t nothin’ but a 
foot er two o’ dirt bank, an’ a stockade with th’ poles wide 
’nough ’part fer to stick th’ bar’l of yer rifle through ! I went 
down in a canoe with two other men, one of ’em was a half- 
breed we called Long Joe —” 


MR. BURKE’S PEDIGREE 


19 


“Was they Injuns in th’ road ?” interrupts his eager audi¬ 
ence. 

“Injuns? God! Yes, woods bilin’with’em. That half- 
breed I was tellin’ ye about, they got him — shot him an’ 
sculped him. That’s Injun way, ye know. I ain’t ever held 
it up agin ’em. Injuns is Injuns. I’ve seen plenty white 
men wan’t any whiter actin’ than Tecumthe — I knew him 
well. An’ as fer taking sculps, th’ Injuns ain’t th’ only ones 

— th’ British useter give a bounty fer ’em those days. After 
they killed Joe, like I told ye, th’ other man — I plumb fergit 
his name — and I, we kep’ on. He wan’t hurt, but he was 
took kinder silly with th’ heat er sumthin’ — ’twas hotter ’n 
hell, long ’bout th’ first week in July. I ric’lect how he went 
along singin’ an’ laffin’ — ’twas all I c’ld do to keep him at 
th’ paddle. An’ me squattin’ in th’ stern with th’ rifle. Th’ 
river was low, like it gits in a hot spell, an’ oncet or twicet we 
hed to git out fer a kinder portage where they was these little 
muddy islands — an’ him a-laffin’ an’ a-singin’ th’ hull 
time! I swanny that was th’ longest fifteen mile I ever made 
in my time; ’peared like I’d orter been gray-headed an’ 
toothless time we git to th’ eend of it! An’ when we got to 
th’ fort an’ giv’ th’ letter to Croghan, what d’ye s’pose it 
said ? Why, fer him to light right out — quit — retreat up 
th’ river as quick’s he c’ld, ’count o’ Proctor bein’ in front of 
him with th’ British troops — ’twas th’ Forty-first Rig’ment, 
I remember — an’ two thousand Injuns on his flank. Two 
thousan’, that’s what I’d jest come through, mind you. I 
ain’t much on Aggers, but take m’ oath they wan’t any two 
thousand of ’em. God! I never give a red fer William 
Henry Harrison from that day to this. Any man that’d 
fit with Injuns half tiis nat’ral life had orter have knowed ye 
can’t git any two thousand redskins together an’ keep ’em 
together — not even Tecumthe couldn’t do it, ner Brandt 
ner Red Jacket ner any of their own kind, let alone any white 
man. You’d orter seen Croghan when he read th’ letter. I 
went in to where he was settin’ in his shirt and breeches — 
’twas sweatin’ hot, like I told you. I dunno why we always 
called Croghan ‘ little,’ less’n ’twas becuz he was such a 
young feller. He wan’t much over twenty — jest a boy — 
jest a big tall lanky boy like they breed ’em down in Kaintuck 

— that’s where he come from. ‘You tell th’ gin’ral I’m 


20 


NATHAN BURKE 


here, an’ by God, here I stay!' he said to me. Lord! I 
remember like it was yesterday. They was a Inj un woman — 
a right good-lookin' young squaw — settin' in th' corner o' 
th’ cabin plattin’ a basket. Thar she sot an' platted, like a 
stone image, an' never even looked up at Croghan swearin' 
an' damnin' an' stridin' up an' down, bitin' his finger-nails." 

“ An' did he sure 'nough stay ?" asks the boy, with shining 
eyes. 

“Oh, yes, he stayed — yes, little Georgie stayed. They 
was 'bout a hundred an' thirty of us at th' last — in th' 
fight, I mean, when Proctor sent up th' Forty-first agin us. 
They was more men 'n that inside th' stockade, but mostly 
sick — fever 'n ager — so's they couldn't fight. Some of 
'em did, anyhow. I ric’lect I was chillin' myself regular, but, 
by criminy, th’ fight come on my off day! " — He chuckled at 
this as if it had been the finest joke in the world. — “How’d 
th' fight begin ? Why, it begun like this: th' British gin'ral 
hed a man — what they call a non-commissioned orficer, 
y'know — to come up to th’ fort under a white flag, with two- 
three Injuns an' some soldiers with him, an' he giv a letter to 
Croghan with ‘Come out from behind yer little Tom-fool 
breastworks, er I’ll blow ye to kingdom come,' in it:— not 
jest them words, but put kinder civil-like, ye unnerstan'. 
An’ Major Croghan he sent back word: ‘Blow an’ be 
damn, then!' That was all th' way it begun. 'Twas 
kinder like what they say 'bout a short horse soon curried. 
An’ what we done to 'em, Nat, what we done to 'em—! 
That fool Britisher hadn't no better sense 'n to march his 
men in three columns right up agin th' stockade. They 
come right up, right up agin our rifles they come — braver 
men I never see. I swanny, 'twas a shape !" He would fall 
silent, with his strong old yellow fangs clenched on the pipe- 
stem as they sat by the fire glimmering under the lee of a log 
in some twilight nook of woods. “Did you kill any of 'em, 
Jake?" the boy would ask him. To which he sometimes 
made answer with an unwonted diffidence or indirection that 
powder 'n shot come pretty durn high them days, an' ye 
couldn't afford to waste none. “But did ye ever kill a man 
fer certain sure, an' see him fall ? " Nat persisted. But though 
it was hardly possible to doubt that in the trade of war Jake 
had slain men, from some obscure reason — it may well have 


MR. BURKE’S PEDIGREE 


21 


been a sort of tribute in its way to the other’s youth and to 
his own dim notions of what was decent and humane — he 
would never acknowledge it in plain words. “I reckon ye’ve 
seen me aim — at squirrels an’ such, ain’t ye ?” he once said 
after Nathan had pressed him pretty close about the battle 
of the River Raisin; “yes, you’ve seen me aim plenty times, 
I guess. Ever see me miss?” “No,” said the youngster, 
puzzled. “Well, I aimed.” 

Even at his drunkest he was still thus uncommunicative; 
being, in fact, one of those obdurate topers who grow more 
and more silent as the bottle lowers. He never drank while 
actually in the pursuit of game, when he was capable of going 
twenty-four hours, perhaps longer, without food or even 
water; nor did he ever offer Nat a sip, or allow him to carry 
the flask.' Nathan used to go to sleep curled up under the 
ragged and foul old army-blanket that served them for bed 
on these expeditions, leaving Darnell sitting cross-legged by 
the fire, smoking and musing, with the bottle between his 
knees, and the light playing redly over his hard, weather¬ 
beaten features and high ’coonskin cap. And anon, the boy, 
who was an alert sleeper, would start from his dreams just 
in time to grab Jake away from the bed of coals, where he 
seemed to have an ingrained propensity to tumble the mo¬ 
ment the last drop was drained. He never objected to 
Nathan’s rude ministrations, or became either hilarious or 
maudlin or violent; the liquor affected him (I have since 
thought) much as opium might, reducing him to a kind of 
pleasant torpor. Once in a rare moment of confidence, for 
he was not much given to talking directly about himself, 
he told the boy that he had “beautiful dreams” when he 
was drunk — “ beautiful, ” he repeated with a vague look and 
gesture. Heaven knows what they could have been, poor 
old Jake ! Perhaps, after all, the mutual responsibility of 
their companionship was good for the man, and not entirely 
harmful for the boy. 

As I remember him, however, Nat came very early to a 
sense of responsibilities and obligations. It would be im¬ 
possible to say at what age it was borne in upon him that he 
was living upon the bounty of strangers, beholden to their 
good-will for the bite he ate, the clothes on his back, the roof 
over his head. When I look back now, it seems as if he must 


22 


NATHAN BURKE 


have been born with that knowledge and with the determi¬ 
nation to even the score. Yet I know that he was merely an 
ordinarily bright lad of an industrious and conscientious dis¬ 
position; there were thousands like Nathan Burke growing 
up all over the country. If he hoed the garden and milked 
the cows and lent a hand to hanging out Mrs. Williams’s wash 
a trifle more willingly and consistently than the other boys, 
it must have been due, first of all, to some innate distaste for 
idleness and only in secondary degree to that desire to be 
“worth his keep” at which I have hinted. ’Liph and his 
wife were too good-hearted to thrust his dependence in his 
face; they were assuredly not conscious of making any differ¬ 
ence between him and their own children; and Nat himself 
was not at all quicker or cleverer or better-looking than ’Liph 
junior oj- any of the rest. He did, indeed, display more 
aptitude for learning; but that was the result of a sort of 
abstract talent for application. He had a fancy for slogging 
away until the task was done, the thing, whatever it might 
be, accomplished; and, being set to get his letters out of an 
old almanac, got them with proportionate time and trouble, 
exactly as he would have achieved his stent at wood-chop¬ 
ping or what-not, undeterred by any desire to go fishing or 
berry-picking. With the almanac his literary labors may 
almost be said to have begun and ended; it came with cer¬ 
tain bottles of a patent medicine, by name “Vaughn’s Vege¬ 
table Lithontriptic Mixture.” This remedy was a mighty 
favorite in its day, curing everything from chilblains to 
cholera — according to the universal habit of patent medi¬ 
cines. There never lacked a bottle on the chimney-piece; 
and to this day Mr. Burke observes a greater grace and skill 
in his capital V’s than he can command in the making of any 
other letter. 

All these details lack singularly in dash and color. A man 
who was born and brought up in a log-cabin sixty years ago 
should, in conscience, have learned to read out of the Bible, 
and studied lying on the floor winter nights, by the aid of a 
flaming pine knot. But there was no pine in the country; 
and although the Williamses possessed a Bible, Nathan, dread¬ 
ful to confess, never felt the slightest curiosity to open one. 
until years later! His limited acquaintance with Webster’s 
spelling-book and Vaughn satisfied him. And up to the 


MR. BURKE’S PEDIGREE 


23 


spring day when Jake Darnell stopped ’Liph on the homeward 
road to tell him that he had got the place with Duceys for 
Nat on trial, nothing noteworthy had happened in the boy’s 
whole life. Once on a three days’ trip with Jake he had shot 
a deer; once he fished the Williams baby (the baby of the 
hour; there was a fresh one at regular intervals), a two-year- 
old girl, out of a pool of the Scioto, where she had fallen over 
her head, and carried her bawling to her mother — a feat 
for which he received a deal of unmerited gratitude and ap¬ 
plause. And once he fell from the hay-loft and dislocated 
his shoulder. This last was a real event; ’Liph was called 
in from the fields to saddle one of the lumbering old plough- 
horses and journey in town, post-haste, for the doctor. He 
returned, not with the doctor, but instead with a long, gawky, 
big-nosed, young medical student who bandaged up the in¬ 
jured member after putting it in place with a dexterity and 
gentleness far surpassing that of any woman, so that for days 
and months afterwards Nathan remembered the very look 
and touch of his lean, clean, strong, steady hands. He dosed 
the family all around for chills and fever, laughed at the 
Lithontriptic Mixture, and told Mrs. Williams to throw it in 
the fire — and so took his departure much as he had come, 
like a gust of fresh air on a dull day. Nathan worked all 
summer helping Tim Pascoe build his dam to get the money 
wherewith to pay ’Liph; although, to be sure, the bill had 
not been large, but neither were a boy’s wages in those days. 
To do him justice Williams took it with reluctance, even 
remonstrating with the lad: “Lord, I ain’t needin’ it — I 
ain’t doggin’ ye fer it, Nat,” he said kindly. “’Twas doin’ 
my work ye hurt yerself, anyhow.” 

“I want to pay it,” said Nathan, stubborn and brief- 
spoken as usual. 

He and Pascoe did not erect a monument more lasting than 
brass in that forlorn old dam; it was little more than a ridge 
of boulders and logs piled up across the river, constantly 
giving away with a devastating rush of water, and so low as 
to be quite beneath the surface during the spring freshets. 
It sufficed the Pascoes, who were a shiftless, improvident, 
happy-go-easy lot — yet I should speak more gently of them, 
for they are all dead this long while; and they were Nat 
Burke’s friends; and, in fact, it was Tim Pascoe himself who 


24 


NATHAN BURKE 


took Nathan up and brought him into town in his wagon the 
last five miles of the journey, and set him down, finally, at 
Mr. William Ducey’s gate. 

Note. Mr. James Sharpless, referred to in this chapter, died in 
1906. He was at one time very prominent in his profession, and was 
the author of two books: “With the Argonauts; Studies and 
Sketches,” Bayard Bros., San Francisco, 1875; and “Recollections 
of a Veteran Journalist,” 2 vols., Sanford, Megrue & Co., Columbus, 
Ohio, 1886. 

I went to see the old gentleman, in connection with this work, a 
little while before his death, and found him quite sprightly still, 
though much enfeebled in body at the advanced age of eighty-four 
years. He was very willing to talk about the general, of whom he 
spoke not at all sentimentally, but with the beautiful and touching 
affection which exists, it would seem, only between men. “Burke 
could have had any public office in this State, if he had chosen to go 
after it,” he said to me; “but he always scouted the notion, and he 
used to tell me with a laugh that he was no orator as Brutus was — 
meaning me, Madame. He didn’t like public speaking, you know; 
and he never had the slightest conception of his own personal popu¬ 
larity. Why, I remember there was a man here in town named 
Carrington — a hardware merchant, a very good sort of fellow — 
who looked something like Nathan and was often taken for him — 
which, I have no doubt, Carrington rather liked. But Nat remarked 
to me that it must be very annoying to Carrington to be continually 
spoken to for himself — ‘and,’ says he, perfectly simple and seri¬ 
ous, ‘it’s the most extraordinary thing, Jim, but nobody ever takes 
me for Carrington P” — M. S. W. 


CHAPTER III 


Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came 

The Ducey house, like all the other city houses in Nathan’s 
limited experience, seemed to him a prodigiously handsome 
and imposing edifice. It was brick; it was two stories high, 
with windows glittering in regular tiers of three across the 
front, and a front door with a fan-light above it and slips of 
glass along the sides, and a porch, and a flight of stone steps 
and a brass door-knob; it was set back in an ample yard of 
trees, flower-beds, and the beautiful blue-grass turf, well- 
nigh an extinct growth with us now, so common then that 
Nat, who perhaps did not possess much of an eye for natural 
beauties, scarcely noticed it. The approach was by a straight, 
brick-paved walk, where he was fated to spend more than one 
hot, toilsome hour, gouging out the weeds that sprouted peri¬ 
odically between every brick. Had he known it, the prospect 
would not have discouraged him; he never feared work; but 
it was with a good deal of inward tremor, proceeding mostly 
from anxiety as to whether he was going to “suit,” that he 
went skreeking up the walk in his unaccustomed boots, and 
so around to the back door, following a hint of Pascoe’s. 
“TIP help always comes in an’ goes out that way,” this sage 
had warned him; “th’ front door’s for folks, ye know.” At 
the rear his heart was unexpectedly gladdened by the familiar 
spectacle of a wash-bench, milk-crocks sunning, the woodshed, 
and the grindstone. He beheld the features of his prospec¬ 
tive kingdom; here was the stable, here a little garden-patch 
behind neat white palings; there^was a carriage-house, and 
chicken-coops. None of this, perhaps, was pretty, but there 
was a homely grace of thrift, cleanliness, and order about the 
place that at once pleased and awed him. The boy felt a 
kind of dutiful eagerness to keep it all in that condition and 
better; he’d show them if they gave him the chance ! All the 

25 


26 


NATHAN BURKE 


city yards, he had noticed as they came along, were kept 
thus tidy; the difference between them and the unlovely 
disorder — a disorder which sometimes had not even the 
excuse of being convenient — of the Williamses’ surroundings 
had caught his eye. This, then, was the way in which city- 
folks liked things kept; —very good, give him a chance and 
he’d show them ! The capital city of our State was not a 
large one in the early thirties; and Nathan did not suffer — 
as youth is poetically supposed to — in the transition to 
bricks and mortar from the wide, grave, silent spaces of his 
backwoods. Truth to tell, there was no such preponderance 
of the bricks and mortar; it was a pleasant little town, 
characterless and immature as most other middle western 
towns of its era; and doubtless there were double files of 
trees along the streets, and wide yards; and comfortable 
homes like that of the William Duceys, with tumbledown 
shanties next door. Perhaps the new Penitentiary loomed 
grimly on the confines where Nathan had entered; and it 
may be they were just laying the foundations of the Capitol, 
and tall derricks straddled above the recumbent stones in 
the square bounded by State and Broad streets, the square 
whereon the Ducey windows looked and met the morning 
sun. But so naively self-absorbed is youth, so strangely 
unobservant of its environment, so pathetically expectant of 
the eternal To-morrow, and oblivious of the eternal To-day, 
that when I sit down and straightly endeavor to call up a pic¬ 
ture of the first city I ever knew, I find myself groping in a fog 
of formless memories. When people say to me, “Why, you 
recollect all about such a time or place — you were a boy 
then,” I think within me, Good God, and what has become of 
that boy ? He is dead — gone and irretrievable, along with 
those departed days. Challenge his memory, indeed! It is 
only with a strain and painful effort that I put aside the cur¬ 
tain of the years and call to him. 

Nathan marched up to the back door and knocked; and 
was presently opened to by a comely, fresh-cheeked Irish 
girl, who started back with a truly Hibernian screech of 
mingled consternation and pleasurable excitement at view 
of this long-legged and shock-haired Corydon, gun in hand. 

“It ain’t loaded,” Nathan assured her, detecting her 
affrighted glance; another woman, a fleshier and somewhat 


CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 27 


older duplicate of the first, seated at the table hard by, 
joined in the flurry of giggles and broken ejaculations to all 
the saints. And Nat, seeing that his statement had pro¬ 
duced no effect, walked in without further ceremony, an¬ 
nouncing succinctly: “Fve come to see about th’ place for 
doin’ chores. My name’s Burke.” 

This covered the whole ground, and had the odd result of 
quieting and silencing the feminine uproar immediately, 
although Nathan had said it in no such intention; he merely 
wanted to make clear his position at once. The two women 
stared at him, and he faced them tranquilly. “Tell Mr. 
Ducey I’m here, ma’am, will you ?” he said, addressing the 
nearest, straightforwardly. He had already decided in¬ 
wardly that neither of these could be Nance’s Mrs. Ducey — 
and whoever or whatever else they were he conceived to be 
no business of his. They exchanged a glance and wink; 
then both reddened and began to clatter confusedly amongst 
the dishes, as they saw that Nat had observed it. The boy’s 
eye, quick and steady by nature, embraced without conscious 
effort every smallest detail of the place and people; Darnell 
had not been far wrong in his estimate of Nathan’s rather 
Indian gifts. He stood before the cook and housemaid, 
unembarrassed, in a boy’s cool detachment from the world of 
women and their incomprehensible ways. The girl who had 
opened the door jumped up and ran into the farther house 
upon his errand; and after a moment the cook remarked 
affably: — 

“Ye’re from the counthry?” 

“Yes,” said Nat. 

“Ye’ve niver been in town befure, I dinnaw ?” 

“Once.” 

“It’s yersilf that can shoot wid that gun, now, ain’t it?” 
she said ingratiatingly. 

“Yes.” 

She set about her work, with an expression of baffled and 
a little puzzled amusement. It was a rout, something simi¬ 
lar to that of the British charge at Fort Stephenson. Yet 
Nat had no desire to show himself either surly or uncommuni¬ 
cative; it never occurred to him to expand his answers to her 
questions, or to ask any in his turn. He waited patiently; 
and, an entry-door swinging ajar, he heard voices in the ad- 


28 


NATHAN BURKE 


jacent room. There was a child’s voice, a man’s heavier 
grumble, and one not loud nor high, but of an extraordinary 
carrying quality, a peculiar distinctness in its unsubdued, yet 
sweet, vibrations. 

“It’s the new boy about the place, William. William , 
why don’t you answer? It’s the new boy — I saw him go 
past the window — he had a gun — a gun of all things ! No, 
Georgie, you can’t go and see him — no — you can see the 
gun some other time — Georgie, I said no! He looked dirty 
— isn’t he dirty, Norah ? You don’t know ? Well, mercy, I 
don’t suppose you do know; they don’t seem to know the 
difference between being clean and dirty in Ireland, anyhow. 
I don’t want you to go near him, Georgie — you don’t want 
to touch a dirty boy like that, do you ? What’s that, Wil¬ 
liam ? Oh, pshaw, he can’t hear me — and besides he is 
dirty, Will — I just caught a glimpse of him and I know he’s 
dirty — all those country people that come in the store are. 
I don’t want the children to go near him — maybe there’re 
things in his hair — he seemed to have very thick hair, and 
I don’t believe it’s ever been washed —” 

The cook closed the door hastily, with a quick conscious 
glance at Nathan. It opened, however, almost immediately, 
with a species of delicate bustle, a light, gracious hurly-burly 
which Nathan grew in time to recognize as the invariable 
accompaniment of all Mrs. Ducey’s actions. She stood on 
the threshold, and the boy eyed her with an unmoved coun¬ 
tenance as he has since been told, but in reality stirred to his 
depths by a wondering, delighted, even reverent admiration. 
He understood at a stroke all Nance’s rhapsody; he had not 
dreamed there could exist on this dull earth a loveliness so 
splendid and compelling, although he could not then — nor 
now — set down in terms its changeful and evasive bright¬ 
ness. He did not know whether Mrs. Ducey’s features were 
regular or no, her eyes gray or hazel — it did not matter. She 
seemed taller than most women; her movements of an incom¬ 
parable grace, buoyancy, and vigor springing from abound¬ 
ing good health, good spirits, good nature. She dominated 
the little company; clothes and setting surrendered to her; 
the fresh morning-gown she wore was, I dare say, only a 
cotton print, but it flowed about her in folds of an antique 
nobility; her clear eyes, her brilliant hair, the very glow in 


CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 29 


her cheeks irradiated the kitchen, and she looked upon us 
from her heights like a star. 

“Is that the boy — are you the boy? Oh, mercy, that 
gun's dangerous — didn’t you know any better than to bring 
a gun ? You can’t go hunting here, you know, there’s noth¬ 
ing to hunt — take that gun away — take it outdoors —” 

“It ain’t loaded, ma’am,” said Nathan, while the two 
handmaids looked on with covert grins. “It can’t hurt 
anybody.” 

“Hm!” Mrs. Ducey gave an indescribable little musical 
grunt, and went on as if he had not spoken. “ Take that gun 
away — it’s dangerous — I won’t have any guns around the 
house — ” she raised her sweet voice in an accent of uncon¬ 
trolled terror. “Come away from that gun, Georgie — 
don’t go near it — come away — it might go off and kill 
you —” 

“Aw, he said it wasn’t loaded, ma; it can’t hurt me,” said 
Georgie, fingering the bright barrel of the weapon curiously. 
He was a sallow and plainly dyspeptic youngster of twelve or 
so, with a large head and very large, soft, dark eyes, in which 
there was an expression of appealing feebleness, reminding 
Nathan vaguely of certain baby animals. 

“Georgie, did you hear mother? Let the gun alone—” 

“Aw, Ma-” 

“Drop the gun, sonny!” said Nathan. 

The boy dropped it promptly at this command, though he 
had wholly disregarded his mother’s. He edged over to her 
side, hunching his shoulders peevishly, yet with a look of 
fright, oddly out of proportion to the rebuke he had received 
— if rebuke it could be called, for Nat had spoken gently. 
“You’ve got awfully funny eyes — kind of bright and shiny 
like our carving-knife,” he commented with agreeable free¬ 
dom. 

“Georgie, hush, you mustn’t say things like that about 
people’s looks, no matter how queer they are — and besides 
the boy has very nice eyes — I’m sure he has very nice eyes 
indeed, hasn’t he, William?” said Mrs. Ducey, with an in¬ 
tention so evidently and eagerly kind that Nathan, if he felt 
some surprise at this candid appraisement, still could not 
resent it. And, being in no sense a judge of manners or the 
world, he accepted this frankly with the rest of his experi- 


30 


NATHAN BURKE 


ences. “ George, come here to mother — remember what I 
told you —” said Mrs. Ducey, anxiously. She made sound¬ 
lessly with her lips the outlines of the words “don’t touch 
him” and supplemented the pantomime by gathering her 
crisp skirts aside in illustration. George retreated obedi¬ 
ently. None of this escaped Nathan; he had never heard of 
lepers at the time, or he might have felt like one; but he made 
no such comparison, merely holding his ground, with the 
color rising a little in his sun-browned face. And Mr. Ducey 
following up his wife at that moment,the youth was too occu¬ 
pied with the first view of his future employer to spare much 
attention elsewhere. He thought that Georgie looked rather 
like his father, who was a man perhaps about thirty-five years 
old, dark, tall, and slender, with the same appearance of 
physical weakness, and the same big, sentimental eyes — 
sentimental not being at this time, however, a word in active 
use in Nat’s vocabulary; he would have put Mr. Ducey 
down as being slightly sawney. He stood up straight, and 
answered the other’s questions with an instinctive concise¬ 
ness. He may have been a little self-conscious, knowing 
that his measure was being taken, and very eager to “ suit.” 
Yet if the Duceys, husband and wife, if little George yonder, 
if the Irishwomen ostentatiously slopping about with their 
mops and dishpans and sending him a furtive look from time 
to time, if these were all taking his measure, so was Nathan 
taking theirs — and I have sometimes thought that there is 
no tribunal so stern, so exacting and pitiless, as that of youth. 
At fifteen we are as hard as flint, at fifty little better than 
a miserable bog of compromises — so does the whirligig of 
time bring in its revenges! I do not say that Mr. Nat dis¬ 
played such preternatural acuteness as to gauge his new 
employers upon a moment’s acquaintance with ruthless 
accuracy; he was no marvel of precocity. In fact, he was not 
conscious of seeking to understand and weigh them at all. I 
cannot so much as tell when that inevitable process began; 
but even the trivial details of this first meeting must have 
counted for something in it, and the earliest impression never 
quite wore away. 

“He seems to be a willing boy — but the worst looking,” 
said Mrs. Ducey in the entry, as the master and mistress of 
the house concluded this momentous interview; “I don’t 


CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 31 


know how we can have him drive the carriage. You’ll have 
to give him some of your clothes, William; I mean the old 
ones that you’re going to throw away — they’ll be plenty 
good enough for him. There’s that suit I was going to give 
to that old blind beggar that comes around — they’ll do 
nicely for — what’s his name ? Nathan. He may look a 
little better after he’s cleaned up — Oh, fiddle-de-dee, he 
can’t hear me; you’re all the time s-h-h-ing me, Will. I 
believe you don’t like me to talk at all. What ? When you 
mumble so low that way, I can’t understand what you’re 
saying. Hurt what t Hurt the boy’s feelings ? William, I 
think it’s very unkind of you to say that — yes, I do — it’s 
unkind. You know I never would hurt anybody’s feelings. 
Oh, now, you needn’t come around me that way —” the rest 
died off somewhere in the interior of the house. And, in a 
few minutes, little George came running back to the kitchen. 

“Ma says I’m to take you out to the stable, and show you 
where you’re to sleep,” he informed Nathan with a good deal 
of importance. “I’m going to carry your gun. I know all 
about guns — I can shoot first-rate, I —” 

“ Did your ma say you could ? ” Nat asked him. The boy 
looked him straight in the eye as he answered: “Yes—of 
course. She said for me to carry the gun — she said —” 
Nathan folded his arms, and surveyed the other from his 
lank, slab-sided height, judicially. There was a momentary 
silence in the kitchen; Bridget and Nora suspended their 
rolling-pin and knife-board activities to watch and listen with 
an unusual interest. 

“I don’t guess she said anything like that, Georgie,” said 
Nat, picking up the musket himself and moving towards the 
door; “I kinder guess she said you weren’t to go near it, 
ain’t that so?” he suggested pleasantly. 

“Aw, she did too say I could carry it —” 

The cook and housemaid burst into strident laughter. 
“That’s the toime ye got come up with, Jarge,” said the 
former, wiping her eyes on her apron. Nathan did not laugh 
himself, he only grinned a little as he followed his young guide 
out-of-doors. The latter did not appear at all crestfallen or 
shamefaced at the late exposure; his soft, pathetic eyes had 
not even wavered. 

“They haven’t got any sense,” he observed cheerfully to 


32 


NATHAN BURKE 


Nathan, with a backward shrug towards the kitchen; “and 
Ma don’t know anything, either. Say, lemme carry it, will 
you ? It’s yours, ain’t it ? Say, lemme carry it.” He laid 
his small hands on the heavy rosewood stock of the weapon 
and sought to wrest it from its owner. 

“You’d better mind yer mother fer oncet, seems to me,” 
said Nathan. “You don’t want to worry her, do ye ? That 
ain’t no man’s way to do. S’posin’ she is kinder pernickety 
’bout th’ gun? That’s th’ way wimmen is, I guess; they 
can’t help it. Ye don’t want to worry ’em; ’tain’t fair. 
You’re a man, y’know.” He shifted the gun to his shoulder 
out of the boy’s reach, struck — and rather disagreeably — 
by his persistence. 

“Aw, she don’t know anything. It ain’t loaded, and she’s 
scared just the same; she’s just silly ’nough to be ’fraid of its 
hurting me. Lemme carry it, will you ? ” 

Nat went on silently, the boy dogging him with a kind of 
feeble determination, not wholly childish; curiously femi¬ 
nine, in fact. “Ma’d never know it, anyhow — she’ll never 
find out!” 

“Everything gits found out first er last, I reckon,” said 
Nathan, announcing, without knowing it, one of the great¬ 
est and most stable truths of life; he was simply casting about 
for some argument that would impress this unruly youngster. 
George Ducey lacked only three years or so of Nat’s own age, 
but he seemed to the latter unconscionably babyish. Perhaps 
the hard circumstances of backwoods life caused children to 
mature earlier, but this boy, Nathan thought, was helpless 
and backward in comparison with little Joe Williams, for in¬ 
stance. You could have trusted Joe, who was an honest, 
sturdy, not too bright little fellow, almost anywhere, with 
anything; he was no bad substitute for a man, with his round 
freckled face, his brave blue eyes, his ragged pantaloons — 
Nathan thought of him with a sudden warming of the 
heart. But this small, frail, finicking creature, everlastingly 
babbling—! For George was everlastingly babbling. When 
he had finally yielded the point about the gun — which Nat 
sagaciously hung up on a pair of hooks well above his young 
friend’s head, over the bed in the little stable-loft room which 
was to be his — George, following him about, poured out a 
stream, a fountain, a flood of talk, mostly concerning himself 


CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 33 


in whom he was, as is not infrequently the case, very ingenu¬ 
ously interested. He would be thirteen his next birthday, 
that would be in the fall, in November, the eleventh of No¬ 
vember. Everybody always gave him presents on his birth¬ 
day, everybody, the hired girls and all; his mother didn’t like 
it if they didn’t give him presents; why, once she sent off 
the hired man because he didn’t give George a present. His 
birthday was the eleventh of November — not the tenth nor 
the twelfth, but the eleventh. He guessed Uncle George — 
his Uncle George Marsh that he was named after — he 
guessed Uncle George would give him a gold watch. Uncle 
George was ever so rich; he was the richest man in this town, 
the richest man in the United States. When Georgie grew 
up, he was going to be rich, too; he was going to be the richest 
man in the world; he was going to marry a beautiful prin¬ 
cess; Ma said he was as handsome as a little prince: did 
Nathan ever see a prince? The princes in fairy tales always 
could do everything — he could, too. There wasn’t hardly 
anything he couldn’t do. He had the best marks of anybody 
in school; they didn’t like it, the other boys didn’t, they 
were jealous; he had to lick ’em; he could lick any boy in 
school; he had licked ’em, the whole school — 

“My ! You’ll git me kinder skeered of ye, if ye go on like 
that,” said Nat, soberly; “stand off a little further, ye might 
git one of these here chips in yer eye — they fly considerable 
when I’m choppin’.” 

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” said George, with condescension. 

“Thanky kindly,” said Nathan, governing his smile; he 
might have spared the trouble, for George was as impervious 
to satire as he was to reproof. And I may set it down here 
for a contribution to the sum of human experience, that al¬ 
though I have met in my time many mighty performers with 
the ancient English weapon, I never met one who had the 
slightest sense of humor. 

“They’re all jealous of me, you know,” George repeated in 
explanation. “I’m always head. Ma says she never saw 
anything like the way I do my sums — she says I’ve got a 
natural head for figures. I can add just like — just like — 
just as quick. I never make mistakes, not even the hardest 
sums that the rest of ’em can’t do at all.” 

“That so? What’s eighteen-thirty-five, ’n’ eighteen 


34 


NATHAN BURKE 


thirty-six, V eighteen-thirty-seven all put together, hey ? ’' 
Nat inquired in the benevolent design of experimenting on 
this wondrous balloon — finding out if it were a possible thing 
to prick and abase it. He paused to stand erect and wipe his 
forehead on the sleeve of his shirt, and in the act caught sight 
of a little girl with some books in a strap coming around the 
corner of the house. 

11 Eighteen-thirty-five and eighteen-thirty-six,’ ’ said George, 
elaborately, “why — why — that makes — it makes —” 

“Blue lightning on the add, ain’t ye ?” said Nat, returning 
to his task; and, fortunately for George’s reputation — al¬ 
though, if I am not mistaken, it would have taken more than 
this to cast him down—the conversation was here interrupted 
by the arrival of the little girl. She came hesitatingly toward 
them along the walk which hereabouts was arched over with a 
trellis whereon a grape-vine grew and twined; the sun winked 
overhead amongst swift, incessant April clouds, and a fan¬ 
tastic pattern of shadow from the woodwork netted with the 
yet leafless vine played over her as she moved. It was the 
fashion to dress little girls in those days exactly to resemble 
their mothers and grown-up sisters, in a solemn propriety of 
wide skirts and coal-scuttle headgear; extraordinarily meek- 
appearing white embroidered pantalettes, white stockings, 
and ankle-gaiters decorated the lower parts of them; they 
wore the most amazing little mantles with fringes and bugles, 
like so many small grandmothers. This child differed from 
her elders only by a braid of brown hair almost as thick as 
Nathan’s wrist, trailing down her back; she was a grave, 
inquiring, and rather homely young person. “Hello!” said 
George, “you back? Is school out ? Did you miss any 
times ? How many times did you miss ? ” 

“I didn’t miss any,” said the other, coming a little nearer 
and surveying Nathan with shy curiosity. 

“Huh — don’t believe it,” said George, gallantly; “you 
always miss.” Nathan silently set the blade of the axe deep 
in a knotted stick, and split the wood in halves. 

“My, you’re strong, ain’t you?” said the little girl, coming 
nearer him. “ I like strong people,” she added after a moment, 
in an explanatory tone. “What’s your name?” 

“His name’s Nathan,” interposed George, in a manner so 
closely duplicating Mrs. Ducey’s that the effect was startling; 


CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 35 


it some way conveyed the impression of entire personal dis¬ 
regard, as if the speaker were alluding to a post, a pet animal, 
some characterless and scarcely sentient creature. “Ma 
says you’re not to touch him — he’s dirty.” 

“You better stand out’n th’ way, er I might nip ye with th’ 
axe,” said Nathan, more gruffly than was natural to him. 
And at once — being a kindly lad — felt a twinge of self- 
reproach to see the little girl sheer off from his neighborhood, 
obedient and rather frightened. “I wouldn’t want to hurt 
ye, y’know,” he said gently. 

“She’s afraid — she’s a ’fraidy-cat,” said George, with 
contempt; “I ain’t afraid. I ain’t afraid of anything — I’m 
just as brave! I wouldn’t be afraid of — of a whole lot of 
soldiers with guns. I’d go right up to ’em — I would, if 
there was an army. What would you do ? I bet you’d run 
away!” 

“I bet I would too,” said Nathan, chopping steadily. 

“I wouldn’t — I’d fight ’em all.” 

“You couldn’t fight an army, George — could he fight a 
whole army?” said the little girl, reasonably appealing to 
Nathan. 

“Dunno,” said Nat. “Mightn’t be brave to run away, 
but ’twould be better sense. Kinder puts me in mind of 
what a old Injun oncet said to a man I know. ‘Hungh /’ 
he says, ‘white man heap fool. Live jay better ’n a dead 
eagle!’” 

She looked at him measuringly. “That’s the longest 
you’ve said yet,” she remarked; “I guess you don’t care 
much about talking, do you ? Now you’re laughing,” she 
added quickly, her own grave little face breaking into dim¬ 
ples. “ With your eyes, kind of, I mean. My name’s Frances 
Blake — you can call me Francie, if you — if you’d like to. 
I’m eight. How old are you ?” 

Nat told her, warming, not unnaturally, I think, to the 
first person, child as she was, who had displayed a living 
interest in him. The little thing climbed up on a saw-buck, 
and sat swinging her books in their strap, swinging her bon¬ 
net by its strings, swinging her proper white legs, while she 
chattered. “ I haven’t got any father or mother, either,” she 
said eagerly, when Nat had answered some of her other ques¬ 
tions; “they’re dead — a great long while ago when I was a 


36 


NATHAN BURKE 


little weenty teenty baby; that’s why I’m not sorry. Aunt 
Anne says I ought to be sorry, but I just ain’t. I just live 
here, you know, there isn’t any other place for me — I’m 
Aunt Anne’s little girl, she says. I’ve got to go to school and 
study hard, Aunt Anne says, because I’m not very quick — 
she says I’m the slowest child she ever saw.” 

“ I don’t have to go to school — I get excused often — often 
and often. Ma got me excused to-day, because I’m sick. 
I’ve got the awfullest sore throat you ever saw,” said George, 
hopping on one foot; “I ain’t a bit rugged, Ma says. I’m 
delicate.” 

“I thought you looked kinder peaked,” said Nathan. 
Frances gave him a sharp glance. 

“Now you’re laughing again,” she said, nodding her head 
shrewdly. “Oh, looky here, I’ve got your name in one of 
my books! It’s an old one I’m not using, except to learn to 
make writing-letters out of. Look, it says: ‘Can Nat pat 
the cat ?’ You said you were Nat, didn’t you?” 

Nathan arrested the axe to stare at the page she spread 
before him, with the first prick of interest he had so far ex¬ 
perienced in his life, in a book. His unskilled eyes and mind 
followed the lines of print without intelligence until they 
encountered with a pleasurable surprise his own name in 
clear letters such as Vaughn’s Vegetable Lithontriptic Mix¬ 
ture itself could not have bettered. 

“There, N, A, T, that’s the big print letters, and here it’s 
the little ones all except the big N, and down here it’s in the 
writing-lesson — that you do on your slate, you know, when 
Miss Thompson reads it off,” Francie went on, delighted 
with this phenomenon. “I b’lieve there’s more about you 
in the book, but a boy tore out some of the leaves to make 
spit-balls of — and I upset ink over that page, so it’s not all 
here. Didn’t you have this book at your school ? I can write 
that, ‘Can Nat pat —’” 

“Huh! I should thinkso,” said George, scornfully; “you 
ought to — going on nine!” 

“I know — I’m slow — and then I didn’t begin until last 
fall,” said the child. She wrinkled her pale little forehead 
and eyebrows — which latter were very thick, black, and 
straight and lent what was plainly an entirely misleading 
expression of resolution and temper to her face — with a 


CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 37 


passing look of worry; then it cleared. “But I always learn 
everything after a while,” she finished philosophically, “so 
it doesn’t matter. I’m through with that book now. Would 
you like to have it? ” For Nathan had taken the shabby 
primer from her hand and was turning its stained and ragged 
leaves with a sudden strong curiosity. 

“Why, I — I wouldn’t want — I don’t like —” he stam¬ 
mered. “Are ye sure ye want to give it away ? You don’t 
know me very well fer to make me presents,” he warned her 
with a half-laugh. “They hed books like this where I went 
ter school, but they wan’t enough of ’em to go ’round quite — 
ye hed to larn ’em, two out’n one book, ye know — I never 
took much stock in ’em somehow. But this is a real nice 
book. I guess it’s too good ter give away, ain’t it ? ” 

“It isn’t any present,” Franciesaid; “it’s just my old book, 
— I wouldn’t call that a present. Only having your name in 
it that way, wouldn’t you like it ?” 

“Well, I would so, and thanky kindly,” said Nathan, with 
warmth, seeing his acceptance would please her. He de¬ 
posited the book carefully on an upper beam of the woodshed. 
“ It’s a kinder little book fer folks to begin on, ain’t it ? I kin 
read it nights er times when I ain’t workin’.” 

Friendly relations being thus established, Francie climbed 
back on her saw-buck — which she had temporarily deserted 
to complete the transfer of the speller — and sat hunched up 
watching him, with her feet knotted around one of its legs, 
and her chin propped on her hands. 

“ Did you like your school much ? I don’t like school,” 
she remarked candidly. “ What was her name ? The one that 
taught you, I mean ? ” 

“ ’Twan’t no her, ’twas a him” said Nat, swinging the axe 
rhythmically; “ leastways ’twas a he and a she off an’ on, 
you know — sometimes one, sometimes t’other, fer three-four 
weeks at a time. They don’t hev’ school stiddy right along 
where I come from, only jest when folks kin spare time to go.” 

“My!” 

“ I didn’t always go, even when school took up, either,” 
Nat said explanatorily; “ I useter go out an’ shoot’n’ catch 
fish—” 

“ Oh, my ! Where — where did you go ? ” 

“Why, all over — in th’ woods, an’ everywheres.” 


38 


NATHAN BURKE 


“ Were there wild-flowers there ? My, I wish I lived in the 
country!” said Francie, longingly. 

“No, ye don’t,” said Nat, in haste, aghast at the thought 
of leading the young astray. “ ’Tain’t — ’tain’t a nice place 
fer little girls like you. And I hadn’t orter been shootin’ 
an’ fishin’ with old Jake neither — I’d orter been in school, 
I guess,” he added half to himself, a little regretfully. 

“There’s the dinner-bell,” said George, and started to¬ 
wards the house. He had not attended closely to the recent 
proceedings, his interest in Nathan as a novelty seeming to 
be already on the wane. And it was with the greater sur¬ 
prise, therefore, that the latter saw him pause on a sudden, 
face about, and presently come sauntering slowly back again, 
fidgeting a little, with his hands in his pockets. 

“Say,” he began in a confidential undertone, “you got 
any money ?” 

Francie looked from one to the other of them anxiously. 

“Me?” said Nat, who had exactly two dollars and forty 
cents; “yes.” 

“Gimme two bits, will you ? I’ll give it back to you to¬ 
morrow. I know a way I can make an awful lot of money — 
if I just had the two bits to start on. I got to get a few 
things first, you know — twine and — and things. It’s a 
secret, or I’d tell, you. I guess I’ll make ten or ’leven dol¬ 
lars, sure. Mebbe more.” 

“What do you want of his two bits, then? Why don’t 
you get Uncle George—” Francie demanded practically. 

The boy turned on her peevishly. “You needn’t worry, 
Miss Smarty; I’m not saying anything to you. She made a 
quarter herself digging dandelion-greens out of the front- 
yard. Father gave it to her for digging ’em; and she never 
gave me a cent of it,” he said morosely. “Meany — all 
girls are mean, I guess. Ma says we should always share 
everything.” 

“You didn’t help any— Uncle William said I’d earned it 
all by myself,” said Frances. 

“I’ll pay you right away to-morrow,” George repeated, 
turning to Nathan again; “you see, I got to have it to-day, 
on account of the other boys all being out of school to-mor- 
ror, ’cause it’s Saturday and I ain’t going to divide with ’em, 
you know. They all know about this; but they can’t do 


CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME 39 


anything right now, and I’m sick, so I don’t have to go to 
school to-day.” 

“How’ll those other fellers like that, though ?” asked Na¬ 
than, fishing out the money in no little amusement. 

“Ho! They ain’t a bit smart, anyhow. I’ll fix it so 
they’ll never know about me getting — I mean going — well, 
I can’t tell you, you know, ’cause that’d let the secret out. 
I’ll pay you to-morrow—if I forget, just remind me, will 
you ? ” He went off whistling to the house, with the quarter 
secured in his pocket; the little girl also began slowly to 
retreat. “I — I guess you don’t know about George,” she 
remarked diffidently, digging one toe into the ground and 
spinning halfway around on it and halfway back. “ You 
can have my quarter if you like.” 

“Lordy, I don’t want yer money,” exclaimed Nathan. 
“If you don’t look out, you’ll give away everything you’ve 
got.” 

“It’s not that, but George, you know—he — he won’t 
ever pay you back the two bits. He always says to-morrow 
—and then he don’t pay it back at all. And Aunt Anne says 
it’s awful to owe the people that work for you anything. But 
George don’t — he don’t — I mean it’s no use to tell him, be¬ 
cause he’s always going to pay you to-morrow — and he just 
gets mad, if you say anything. I — I wish you’d take my 
quarter.” She faced him with eyes full of her childish trouble, 
and Nathan divined that the situation was not unusual. 

“Why don’t you tell your aunt, then — ?” he was begin¬ 
ning, when she interrupted him with a surprised look. 

“George would tell her it wasn’t so,” she said simply. 
“And then it wouldn’t make any difference what I said, she’d 
just say, ‘H’m,” and wouldn’t hear me any more. I wish you’d 
take my quarter, please. Nora cried about her money — 
but it was more, it was a dollar — she ain’t going to stay 
here — Aunt Anne says she ain’t kind to children.” 

Nat sat dowm on the saw-buck, considering her thought¬ 
fully; and she came and stood in front of him, eying him 
back with a grave and open gaze. 

“You’d better take my quarter,” she repeated, nodding 
her wise head. 

“You’ve got no call to pay George’s debts,” said Nathan; 
“what do you want to do that for ? ” 


40 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Why, somebody’s got to pay them, don’t you see? It’s 
not right to owe people, Aunt Anne says. And he won’t 
pay — and you went and loaned him the money before I 
could stop you — and I’m his cousin — somebody’s got to 
pay you, or you won’t ever get it,” argued the child, still 
clinging, spite of the evident confusion of her mind, to some 
rock of principle bedded in the very nature of her; and a 
spirit within Nat himself, equally native and inarticulate, 
understood and answered her. 

“You think George beat me out’n my money ’cuz I didn’t 
know him, and somebody had orter told me — is that it ?” 
he said. “Don’t you worry, Francie, I know all about 
George. I reckon he borrys your money, too, when he gits 
th’ chanst, hey?” 

She hesitated, then nodded. “I just give it to him, you 
know,” she explained. 

“Might as well give it first as last, hey?” said Nathan, 
grinning; “he’ll git your two bits direckly if he keeps at ye 
long enough — an’ he’s a master-hand to keep at ye,” he 
commented; and seeing assent in her face, went on: “Tell ye 
what: you bring yer money here an’ give it to me, — wait a 
minute, I ain’t through yet, — an’ I’ll put it in this here little 
tin box along with th’ flint an’ steel an’ th’ piece of punk I 
keep to light th’ lantern with, right up here on th’ shelf by 
th’ lantern. Then next time George wants to borry yer 
money, ye kin jest send him to me — I’ll larn him a few ’bout 
borryin’ from girls!” he wound up, not without relish. 

“I wanted to pay you, though,” said the youngster, 
troubled. 

“Well, ye’re trustin’ me with yer money, ain’t ye ? That’s 
pretty nigh th’ same thing.” He persuaded her to this 
agreement finally, and Frances brought him the coin in a 
shiny little pasteboard box with a bit of jewellers’ cotton, 
bright pink, enfolding it. Nathan has it still. 


CHAPTER IV 


The Mail-Bag 

Mrs. William Ducey to 

Mrs. Cornelia Marsh at 

Chenonville, Avoyelles Parish, La. Sunday (no date) 
My Precious Mother, 

Your letter came Thursday. It is still chilly and I think 
you had better not come North until the middle of June 
but of course if you start now and visit everybody on the 
way up you will not get here before the warm weather. I 
do wish you could bring Mam Jinnie or one or two of the 
other old darkies and that smart young Luella that you 
say is such a good semptress with you (only I generally 
don’t care for the yellow ones they are too near white and 
inclined to put on airs) but Uncle George and William both 
say you can’t bring slaves into this State without danger of 
some kind of fuss so better not try it. I think it’s the silliest 
thing I ever heard of you can bring everything else you own 
all the furniture and everything and nobody would say a 
word and nobody in the South ever cares what you take 
there. And if they are yours why what business is that of 
anybody else’s what you bring ? I never would think of 
interfering in other peoples’ affairs but William says women 
don’t understand and I must not worry about it. I just 
said to him Why William I can’t help worrying and I 
should think you would see what a trouble I have with ser¬ 
vants. And if we can’t bring slaves from the South why do 
they let Governor Gywnne import a whole family from 
Ireland and set them down in his kitchen I’d like to know. 
It’s just the same thing exactly. And Will just laughed and 
said No it isn’t Puss, and Governor Gwynne paid his ser¬ 
vants. But of course you know that’s not the real reason, 
it’s because they’re white (the Irish I mean) and nobody 
up here ever makes any to-do over the white people tho’ 

41 


42 


NATHAN BURKE 


the servants half the time aren’t nearly as well treated as 
our colored ones. But they won’t believe that they think 
we’re standing around with raw-hides and blood-hounds 
every minute making the slaves behave. And they just 
smile and shake their heads (that is some of them do) when 
I say that we’re fond of our negroes and nobody ever treats 
them badly but the overseers and they’re almost always 
men from the North. If you brought Luella you know you 
could hire her out part of the time when you hadn’t any 
sowing for her to do or didn’t need her and that way you 
could easily get back the money it would take to bring her. 
The same way you know that Cousin Elise Guion did with 
her Polly and Ned after Cousin Louis got shot in Baton 
Rouge the time they elected Judge Lestrappe and she was a 
widow and didn’t have anything left to live on. I must 
say I always thought she did pretty well after Cousin Louis 
died better than when he was alive. Well anyway it’s no 
use talking you can’t bring them. 

The way things are here it’s a perfect nuisance (about ser¬ 
vants I mean) and I never shall get used to it if I live in the 
North for centuries. I can’t understand now why it was that 
none of us ever noticed it when we used to come up here 
with you every summer and visit Uncle George before any 
of us were married. But girls aren’t thinking of anything 
but dress and having a good time and then of course we 
were in the best hotels and boarding-houses wherever we 
went and never heard a thing about servants. And by the 
way Uncle George has made a change and is boarding now 
with a Mrs. Woolley on Friend Street. I wanted him to 
come here and live with us but he doesn’t care about it and 
you know he’s very set so I suppose it’s just as well. I was 
going to tell you when I got started on this that I got two 
of the girls out of Governor Gwynne’s Irish family there were 
a whole piling lot of them all ages going down in steps one 
a little bit younger than the next you know which I suppose 
is the reason the governor brought them so there’d always 
be somebody coming on to take the place as fast as they got 
married or anything. It’s a splendid plan if you can only get 
hold of a big enough family. These two he didn’t want of 
course. Marian Gwynne is keeping house for him now (you 
know Marian Ellison the one that married David Gwynne) 


THE MAIL-BAG 


43 


She came back last fall from Philadelphia after David died 
she’s got one child Louise the reddest head you ever saw 
Gwynne all over. So of course Marian took her pick of the 
Irish and got the best of them tho’ dear knows that’s not 
saying much. My two didn’t know a living thing and went 
whooping and keening around in that Irish way till I couldn’t 
stand it and they’re both going when this month is up. They 
want to go around the house in their bare feet and break 
the china half a dozen plates at a clip as Will says so that I 
have to let them go in sheer self-defence or I wouldn’t have 
a thing left to put on the table. William seemed to think it 
rather funny until Bridget scrubbed his leather arm-chair 
with soft-soap and boiling water I’m sure I don’t know why 
for she never scrubs the kitchen-floor and then he sang a 
very different tune. Of course I want to teach them our 
ways about cooking I always do that as none of them ever 
know anything about corn-bread or beat-biscuit or gumbo 
but there are some things I supposed everybody knew and 
thought I didn’t need to tell them. But I never saw people 
so stupid they can’t learn tho’ I’ve tried my best for weeks 
and put up with all kinds of impertinence from them and I 
just had to tell them I couldn’t do anything with them they 
were too dull and I’d give up and let somebody else try. 
Neither one of them seemed a bit sorry although they are 
leaving a good home and I think we are giving the highest 
wages of anybody in town a dollar seventy-five to the cook 
and a dollar and a half to Nora. I asked Nathan if he 
didn’t know a nice country-girl that wanted a place in town 
and if he wouldn’t tell her about us and what a good place 
this was. But he said he didn’t know of any one. He’s 
another slow one the slowest mortal on earth I do believe 
not about his work you know but other things. But he seems 
to be improving here lately. 

I forget whether I told you that Nathan is our new chore- 
boy. William was perfectly possessed to get one from the 
country he says they’re always the best and he heard about 
this one from a farmer that comes in to do his trading at the 
store. Well he was the wildest-looking scarecrow you can 
possibly imagine I tell you my heart went down into my 
boots when I saw him but as I say he’s getting along very 
well in spite of his looks and you never have to tell him a 


44 


NATHAN BURKE 


thing but once which is a comfort. I thought at first it would 
be as well to watch him and see that he didn't take things 
or neglect or mistreat anything for I never saw one of them 
that wouldn’t bear watching. And you know our harness 
is very handsome with silver-plated buckles on it. So I 
have been going out every now and then when he wasn’t 
expecting anybody and kind of wandering round keeping one 
eye out and asking about things in a way that showed I 
knew. But I never caught him doing anything out of the way 
and nothing’s been missed so far. Probably he don’t know 
enough to know when things are valuable. He seems to 
work right straight ahead without paying any attention to 
anybody even me and William says the work is done all 
right but a man never knows. Nathan is rather silent and 
sulky and never speaks except when he is spoken to so differ¬ 
ent from our colored people who always have such beautiful 
manners. I told William thinking he’d be pleased for he 
never has any time to look after anything or see that the 
servants are doing their work and I want to spare him that 
extra trouble as much as I can. But he was quite put out 
and said I ought to remember that Nathan was a self-re¬ 
specting white man and that he wouldn’t go picking and 
stealing and idling away his time like the darkies and he 
thought it very strange that after living in the North five 
years I couldn’t see that white people of the working class 
were different from slaves and that he thought maybe that 
was one reason why I had such a time getting along with 
them. I never knew Will so unreasonable and I’m afraid 
maybe he’s not very well or has been having trouble at the 
store and you know he’s too sweet and dear ever to tell me 
anything about his business for fear of worrying me tho’ I 
should really like to know and I’m sure I could help 
him. 

I didn’t argue with him at all I just said Why William 
you know the negroes don’t call it stealing to take things to 
eat once in a while or pretty things to wear you just have 
to watch them a little and when they take things just take 
them away and tell them they can’t have that and they 
won’t make a bit of fuss. It wouldn’t be at all odd if Nathan 
should take something and I wouldn’t have any squabble 
with him I’d just tell him nicely and quietly that that wasn’t 


THE MAIL-BAG 


45 


right and the experience would be good for him. They all 
have to be taught things like that. I’ve hardly ever had a 
servant I didn’t have to teach that way, and I’m sure I’ve 
had a good many. But while I was talking Will just got up 
and said he had to go to the store and went off without an¬ 
other word so I know he’s worried about something and it 
makes me very anxious and miserable. 

This long letter is all about nothing but servants but you 
know, mother darling I never could compose I just have to 
write right along what comes into my head and after all I 
generally manage to get everything in that’s news. George 
is doing wonderfully at school especially when you consider 
he has to be out of it a great deal of the time when he isn’t 
well. Of course he’s my child and I don’t want to be silly 
about him like so many mothers but it’s a great pleasure to 
me to have him so handsome and smart. I wish I could 
say as much for Francie but there is no use pretending the 
child is altogether her father over again and not in the least 
like dear Sister who was always so gentle and refined. Here 
latterly she’s struck up a great friendship with the hired 
man and wants to go and stand around and watch him and 
talk to him at his work. She must get more out of him than 
the rest of us for we never hear him say anything but yes 
ma’am and no ma’am. But Francie certainly has a bent for 
that sort of society and it almost reconciles me to Sister’s 
death when I think how it would have grieved her. 

I will write you again at Cousin Tom’s and you must write 
me every place you stop and how long you think you will be 
there so that I will know where to send my letters. With a 
heartful of love for my own dearest mother as ever your 

Nancy. 

P.S. William has just brought me the most beautiful 
brooch a heart-shaped opal with diamonds all around it. I 
know he feels badly for having spoken to me so harshly about 
the hired man — as if that mattered. Oh mother dear I 
just can't wait till you get here I am so crazy for you to see 
it. Lovingly A. 


46 


NATHAN BURKE 


Mrs. William Ducey to 

Mrs. Cornelia Marsh 

care Judge Thomas B. Henry 

Memphis Tenn., J une 17th, 183- 

My dearest Mother. 

Well it is sizzling hot here now so you wouldn’t be much 
better off than where you are still I was very much disap¬ 
pointed (sic) when your letter came saying you couldn’t get 
here at the time we set. But of course if all Helen’s children 
are down with the measles you can’t leave her it would be 
perfectly heartless when she depends on you so. Measles 
aren’t dangerous but to have three or four of the poor little 
things (and hers are so near together barely a year between 
them) all crying and miserable at once is pretty hard to 
stand without some other help than the colored servants. 
Grace and her two boys are here now and Tulie Vanneaudet; 
they all send their love to you. 

What you said about meeting the only man that escaped 
from the Alamo on the boat coming up from New Orleans 
was most interesting but oh mother I’m afraid you’ve been 
terribly taken in. Do let me tell you what happened here 
the other day. I was sitting upstairs sewing on Francie’s 
little dress for the pic-nic Mrs. Hunter is going to give her 
Jennie and the children on the twenty-fifth when school 
closes when Georgie came bursting into the room with his 
eyes as big as saucers screaming out Oh Ma there’s a soldier 
in the kitchen do come and look at him, he’s the last one that 
got out! He was so excited I couldn’t make out what he 
was talking about so I thought I might as well go down and 
see the last one that got out whoever and whatever he was 
and wherever he got out of. When I got to the kitchen 
here was Mary (she’s the new one) setting a great table-full 
of cold beef and pie and pickles and everything in the pantry 
for the man who looked awfully weak and tired poor fellow 
and no wonder for he told me he had walked every foot of the 
way from Texas here and he was going up to his old mother 
who lived in New York State and he expected to die there 
if not before he’d had such a terrible time. And he wasn’t 
the last one as my little boy said but the only one that got 
out of the Alamo alive. It was the most pitiful thing I 


THE MAIL-BAG 


47 


ever saw he was almost starved altho’ before he would eat 
a bite he asked couldn’t he have a little stimulant as he felt 
very faint and it was dangerous for a starving man to eat 
a meal unless he had something like that beforehand. So 
Mary was going to give him some cider but I said Mary 
how can you! And I made her get him a bottle out of that 
case of French *brandy Uncle George gave William last 
Christmas and you may know how badly he felt by this 
taking at least two-thirds of it before he felt strong enough to 
begin and eat. He was so grateful and said Madam you 
know what’s good for a starving man and drank off a whole 
tumbler with a little water at one swallow. You see he was 
very different from the man you met except that he hadn’t 
any money either. He was all in rags and I got him some 
clothes and a good shirt of William’s and it was perfectly 
touching to hear him say Madame I’m nothing but a poor 
defender of my country I can’t give you anything in return 
for your kindness but God bless you. He was so overcome 
he could hardly speak distinctly. Just then Nathan the 
hired man came in, and he looked kind of queerly at the man 
but didn’t say anything in his usual sulky way I suppose 
he was mad because he saw I had given the man some of 
Mr. Ducey’s clothes which he considers his perquisite. 

So then we got the man to tell us all about the fight at the 
Alamo and it wasn’t at all as your man described it so you 
see you’ve been deceived and I’m so sorry you gave him ajny 
money. In the first place you know your man said Colonel 
Crockett drew a line and said for everybody to step over 
that wanted to go away and everybody but himself (your 
man I mean) stayed and he waited until the Mexicans 
stopped firing for a minute and dropped over the wall and 
swam the river and got away. But this man said it wasn’t 
like that at all and the Mexicans never stopped firing for a 
second and Crockett never said that. He said it was the 
most aweful scene sometimes he thought he was going to 
lose his mind when he remembered it. Or dreamed about 
it. He killed six men himself and the last one with his 
dying effort hit him over the head with his rifle so he fell 
down insensible under the heap of the six he had killed and 
that way was hidden when the Mexicans came around killing 
the wounded afterwards. I said Mercy six men and he 


48 


NATHAN BURKE 


said that wasn’t anything Crockett killed fourteen he saw 
him and counted them as they fell and Col. Bowie shot 
eight and knifed five before they killed him. He said the 
Mexicans came swarming in by hundreds and our men were 
overwhelmed but kept on fighting like devils one man against 
a dozen at once so that they hardly knew what they were 
doing just shot and stabbed blindly right •and left. Then 
Nathan drawled out My I don’t see how you could take time 
to count them men you and the others killed. But of course 
he did that afterwards and he said he heard the Mexicans 
talking about it while he was lying on the ground. You see 
his story is almost exactly the same as they had in the news¬ 
papers so it must be true. He said it had taken him ever 
since over a year to get away from Texas and get this far 
North and he didn’t know whether he’d live to see his 
mother after all and he was her only boy. And oh mother 
he cried when he said that and it was the saddest thing. I 
just thought of my little Georgie. I gave him two dollars 
so he could go part of the way on the stage or by the canal 
for I saw he must be very feeble from all he had gone through. 
And after I had come upstairs I heard a kind of rumpus 
in the kitchen and I looked out of the window and there 
was Nathan sort of boosting the man along to the side gate 
in a very rough way so I called out of the window to him and 
told him to be more gentle that poor man wasn’t able to 
walk but he didn’t answer just shoved him out of the yard 
and kept shoving him up the street altho’ I could see the 
man was protesting. William brought Uncle George home 
to dinner and I told them about it and said plainly I 
didn’t believe I wanted such a bad-tempered boy as Nathan 
around because it was such a bad example for Georgie and 
I was sure if he behaved like this at only sixteen or seven¬ 
teen he would turn out a brutal vicious man. I thought 
they both looked rather funny and Will seemed a little taken 
aback about the brandy especially when he found there 
wasn’t any left and said he thought cider would have done 
for the fellow, but I said Why William and then he kissed 
me and said I was a dear little woman and never mind he 
didn’t care how much brandy I gave away. Then Uncle 
George said in his swearing way By — he’d like to see that 
chore-boy. And they both went out and talked to him and 



THE MAIL-BAG 


49 


came back laughing and Will told me he wouldn’t dismiss 
him because he had really been doing what he thought was 
right and Uncle George seemed to think he was a pretty 
likely boy. William always is so attentive to Uncle George’s 
likes and dislikes you know he thinks its his duty. 

I have written this off in a great hurry to catch the mail 
as I want to be sure you will get it. Dearest love to all 
and keep the lion’s share for yourself from 

your own Nancy. 

P.S. Will says the last six months the country has been 
fairly bristling with only survivors of the Alamo and they 
come into the store begging every two or three weeks. He 
says there’re enough of them to have crammed the fort full 
and some left outside. Isn’t it awful to think there are so 
many impostors? Your man must have been one of them. 

Nan. 

Mrs. William Ducey to 

Mrs. Stevenson Desha, at 

Frankfort, Ky. July (no other date) 

My dear Sister Betty, 

Ma will be with you by the time this reaches Frankfort 
unless something has turned up to keep her at Emily’s so 
this letter is for both of you. I have been expecting her 
from week to week and so have you I suppose but she is 
always a long while on the road for of course she can’t go 
right by where people live and one’s kin at that and never 
stop to see them you understand that as well as I do. Only 
it’s a little awkward to have all our friends calling to see her 
for two months before she gets here and by the time she does 
get here they will all be completely played out and won’t 
want to come again. 

I wish you could come with her this time but of course 
if you’re expecting in September it wouldn’t be quite safe 
and besides you would be uncomfortable. I do hope it will 
be a boy this time. But you would be so interested to see 
this place again and meet everybody you used to know. It 
has changed so much in ten years and got so much bigger 
you would be perfectly astonished. Every one keeps talking 
about hard times and this currency trouble but it seems to 




50 


NATHAN BURKE 


me things go right along just the same and they go on build¬ 
ing houses and have lovely things in the stores. And I 
must say I can't see why people should make such a fuss 
over whether they buy things with a piece of silver marked 
ten cents or a piece of paper marked ten cents. They call 
them shin-plasters here I suppose they do with you too. Of 
course the paper ones aren't any good sometimes but generally 
you can get your ten cents worth with either one so what's 
the difference ? And oh Betty I do think it's the funniest 
thing the way they all talk about General Jackson and the 
President (the Whigs talk I mean) and say it's all their 
fault about the shin-plasters and the banks breaking up you 
know and go on as if both the poor men had horns hoofs and 
tails and then lo and behold at the 4th of July banquet the 
other day didn’t they get up and toast Jackson and Van Buren 
and talk about them as if they were the grandest things on 
earth! Every other day in the year they say the United 
States is going to the dogs and on the 4th it's the most pros¬ 
perous wonderful country there is. Will says it's because 
they're all politicians and they have to do that way on a 
public occasion because it wouldn't be proper and dignified 
to say what they think. I tell you if the women ran it things 
would be different. 

They had the banquet it was really just a basket-party 
you know like the burgoos at home out in Willson's Grove: 
I expect you remember the place because we went to a pic-nic 
there one summer when we were all up here visiting Uncle 
George only you were a right little girl at the time. It's 
generally kind of hot and flies in the lemonade and I don't 
care much about going but of course the children were 
crazy to. In the morning they had the procession as usual 
and we all saw it from the windows in the big room over 
William’s store and then we went to the Methodist Church 
where the procession wound up not that they were all 
Methodists you know but its the biggest in town so every¬ 
body could get in and hear the exercises. The place was 
jammed to the doors and hotter Uncle George said than it 
was decent for any church to be. We had a struggle getting 
in tho’ we were among the first and at last I got a seat and 
took Francie on my lap which didn’t make either of us any 
cooler and Will had to stand and prop up Georgie who had 


THE MAIL-BAG 


51 


got himself somehow straddle of the pew-door. It was all 
decorated with flags and streamers and they had seats on 
the platform for the speakers and there they were and I 
did feel so sorry for them they looked so hot and uncom¬ 
fortable and couldn’t lounge or let down one single instant 
because everybody was looking square at them. Governor 
Vance sat in the middle and looked as if he was simply melt¬ 
ing down (he’s rather a stout man you know) and finally 
did unbutton his waistcoat I suppose he couldn’t stand it 
any longer and no wonder it was stamped crimson velvet 
one of those double-breasted ones with two rows of cut 
crystal buttons you know very handsome and fashionable 
but so out of place particularly for a fleshy person. Then 
there was Bishop Mcllvaine and he is a dear and Mr. Cor¬ 
win and next to him Governor or I suppose I ought to say 
ez-governor Gwynne only it’s so hard to remember and he 
was the only cool-looking one of them all. He’s so lean 
you remember and immaculately dressed his shirt didn’t 
wilt down one bit like every one else’s but he seemed pretty 
cross for all that. I guess he can’t help it I never saw him 
look pleasant. He’s just like a scrawny old turkey-gobbler 
with that great hook nose and his hair has got awfully gray 
this last year I don’t think you’d know him he seems so 
much older. 

Well then Mr. Sharpless the Presbyterian minister got 
up and prayed and prayed and prayed until we were all 
nearly dead I suppose it’s an aweful thing to say. But all 
the while he was praying I couldn’t help thinking of what a 
time he had at home with Jimmie you’d think praying 
didn’t do him much good anyhow. I’m sure you must 
recollect Jimmie he was such a darling little boy and you 
used to go and see Mary Sharpless and both of you girls have 
such a time dressing him up and playing with him. Mary’s 
an old maid you know it’s so strange she’s had innumerable 
affairs but nothing ever seems to come to anything and I 
suppose she won’t have any more chances now she’s twenty- 
five at least she’s a little bit older than you. And Jimmie has 
grown up a regular minister’s son so wild they can’t do any¬ 
thing with him. It must be a terrible cross to his poor father 
and mother and I believe Will and I hardly know how 
blessed we are to have a son like Georgie. They say Jim 


52 


NATHAN BURKE 


dropped a handful of fish-worms down some other boy’s back 
at Sunday-school and when the Methodists were having 
their Conference here and the whole town was full of them he 
got out in the yard and got some of the children in the neigh¬ 
borhood and the servants and delivered a long sermon with 
things like powerfully converted and awful conviction of SIN 
in a great roaring rumbling voice exactly to mimic the Rev¬ 
erend Bigelow (a great pillar among the Methodists) so that 
they were all in fits of laughter and everybody else perfectly 
scandalized. The worst of it is he’s about fifteen or sixteen 
now too old to whip him with a cane and shut him up in the 
wood-shed the way his father used to do. Uncle George 
told Mr. Sharpless to his face that anyway he wouldn’t give 

a-for a boy that could be scared into good behavior 

with hell-fire or a strap either one. And poor Mr. Sharpless 
couldn’t say a word for he’d come to ask for a donation! 

Well I must get back to the 4th of July I knew you’d want 
to hear about Jimmie so I might as well tell you while I was 
thinking about it. After Mr. Sharpless got through we had 
the Star-Spangled Banner everybody standing up and 
singing and then they read the Declaration of Independence 
while we were still all standing of course. And by the way 
let me tell you while I’m talking about the Sharpless boy that 
as we were standing and I was a good deal bothered about 
Francie the child is so small yet I couldn’t hold her up and 
I was really afraid she’d be smothered to death down there 
among all our skirts with a great fat woman squeezed up 
against me on the other side somebody leaned over from 
behind and whispered to me I’ll take your little girl Mrs. 
Ducey and stuck out a great long arm and sort of scooped 
Francie up and stood her on the back of the pew. After¬ 
wards when the reading was over I turned around to thank 
him and here it was Jim Sharpless and I suppose everybody 
in the place saw me speak to him and I was a good deal 
embarrassed. He is about as big for his age as Francie is 
little for hers with huge raw bony wrists sticking out of his 
sleeves but not so very bad-looking a boy for all his wild¬ 
ness. Of course I made Francie come to me right away but 
I spoke nicely to him and thanked him as if I had never 
heard that there was anything wrong with him at all. The 
next thing Governor Vance spoke on the day we celebrate 


THE MAIL-BAG 


53 


but he didn’t say very much because I suppose he knew the 
others were going to speak right after him and they must 
have kind of divided up what there was to say so it would 
go around and nobody interfere with anybody else. And 
when he got through Governor Gwynne had his turn and 
spoke about the Soldiers of the Revolution and was quite in¬ 
teresting much more so than I thought he could be but 
Uncle George says he has always been a fine speaker and if 
you should come in in the middle of a speech Sam Gwynne 
was making you couldn’t tell which side he was on and Uncle 
George says it takes a smart man to do that. And then Mr. 
Corwin spoke about the pioneers and-first settlers and he just 
told funny stories and some that weren’t very nice but the 
men all laughed like everything even the Bishop sort of 
grinned. Then we sang America and Bishop Mcllvaine 
made a prayer that is he just said the General Thanksgiving 
out of the Service you know Almighty God Father of all 
mercies and said the Benediction and that ended it. 

This was the first 4th of July I have been to in four or five 
years what with sickness and being in mourning for some of 
Mr. Ducey’s family or something preventing. And speak¬ 
ing of mourning there weren’t very many of Governor 
Gwynne’s connection there only some of the men as a good 
many of them are wearing black for poor David. You know 
the Gwynnes are a great family to stand by one another and 
stick together. David was Charlotte’s elder brother that 
you used to be such a friend of you must have seen him 
around the house when you used to go there. However in 
the evening we all went out to the Governor’s to see the fire¬ 
works on the lawn that he has every Fourth for poor people. 
The family always ask a few of their friends to come and sit 
on the porch not to mix in with the poor people you know 
but just to see the fireworks. The Governor always goes 
down and walks around and talks to the poor people and the 
children and Uncle George says it’s nothing but one of Sam 
Gwynne’s popularity dodges. So we went and the place 
was all lit up and looked splendid you know it’s his beautiful 
new house with everything in it very elegant but we had a 
doleful time in spite of it. For here was poor Mrs. David 
Gwynne going around in her black clothes all over crape 
trying to seem cheerful and I just said to her in the hall 


54 


NATHAN BURKE 


Oh Marian my dear I know this is terribly hard for you and 
why do you do it ? Her eyes filled up but she just said I 
can’t help it Nannie you know it’s on account of Uncle 
Samuel’s position we’ve got to entertain and see people but 
it’s awful when I think of last year. She told me all about 
David’s dying of the cholera it was very bad in Philadelphia 
and she thought Louise might go too and she was nearly 
distracted so she just bundled up and came home out West 
tho’ she didn’t know what she was going to do or where she 
was going to live after she got here. And she said the Gov¬ 
ernor came right to her as soon as he heard where she was 
and told her to come here and consider his house her home 
that his nephew’s wife was just the same to him as his own 
kin he would think himself more than repaid if she would 
look after his own motherless children. So of course she 
feels it a duty to have everything just the way he likes and do 
everything he says but I imagine it’s not always very easy with 
that great house to take care of and all the Governor’s chil¬ 
dren and they say the boys are very hard to manage. I told 
her I knew just how she felt because that was just the kind 
of scare I got into when Sister Cornelia and her husband died 
within a week of each other of yellow fever in New Orleans 
and I just made William take us all away and bring us up 
North to Uncle George I was too frightened to stay there a 
minute longer I believe I’d have lost my mind. She said 
Oh is that Cornelia’s little girl I thought she was yours and 
who did Cornelia marry ? So Betty I told her she married 
a Mr. Francis Blake and that was all. I didn’t have the 
courage to tell Marian Gwynne of all people that he was 
nothing but a play-actor I just couldn't do it and besides I 
don’t know whether it would be quite fair to Francie to let 
that get out and I do hope you have never mentioned it to 
a soul for you know things like that do travel around in the 
most wonderful way. I went right on talking quite quickly 
and telling her William had gone in business up here and we 
meant to live here always but she didn’t seem very much 
interested poor thing. 

You can see we had quite an exhausting day of it on the 
4th. In the afternoon we went to Willson’s Grove and 
heard all the toasts after the banquet. It was just the way 
they all are. They toasted the Press may it forever stick 


THE MAIL-BAG 


55 


up as a beacon or something like that you know and then 
everybody would cheer and go on like mad. And then the 
Common Schools may they ever encourage the youth of our 
land and all the rest of it. And Female Patriotism may it 
something or other. And Henry Clay and Benjamin Frank¬ 
lin (his memory of course) and the Fair Daughters of the 
West may they so-and-so. And they had one about Intem¬ 
perance Slavery Licentiousness may they never do this that 
or the other. You know people up here are perfectly silly 
about slavery they talk as if it were the unpardonable sin. 
The children were worn out when we got home and so cross 
there was no living in the house with them I never was so 
glad a day was over in my life. 

I have written a volume but I knew you would be interested 
to hear all about everybody and what we are doing. Give 
ever and ever so much love to Ma and everybody with a good 
kiss and hug for my dear little sister as ever 

Nancy. 

Mrs. William Ducey to 

Mrs. Cornelia Marsh at 
The Broadway Hotel Cincinnati Ohio 

Thursday August 2nd. 

My dear Mother 

I am scribbling this off in a hurry yours having just come 
as I want it to get to you before you make the arrangement 
you speak of and the West-bound mail leaves at a quarter past 
three. It’s ever so much better to come as far as you can by 
the canal. That would be as far as Dayton anyhow and 
would save you that much of the trip on the stage which is 
horrid so hot and dusty and dirty and the worst roads worse 
I think towards the Cincinnati end than this way tho’ neither 
anything to boast of. They have a service with very nice 
accommodations for passengers of course not like an elegant 
Mississippi river steamboat but very nice altho’ so slow. You 
would be so much cleaner and cooler and more comfortable 
than the stage that I know you would not regret it. They 
say the table is very good I don’t know as I’ve never been on 
one myself. If you come all the way by the stage you have 
to change at Dayton sometime in the middle of the night 
because the Douglas line of coaches ends and it’s Finnell’s 
from there here. 


56 


NATHAN BURKE 


I am sending this by the Express-Mail so it will surely reach 
you. They just began running it last month the coaches 
dash into town and out again like the wind it’s quite a sight 
but a great deal finer to look at than to ride in I’m sure. 
One of them came from Zanesville that’s 54 miles in four hours 
the other day that gives you some idea of the speed they go 
at. You have to put Express-Stage on the outside of your 
letter you’ll see it on this one and it costs three or four times 
as much but if one is in a hurry it’s a wonderful relief to know 
that your letter is flying along as if the Seven-League-Boots 
were carrying it and you don’t care how much you spend. 
The only trouble about your taking the canal-boat is that 
nobody can tell exactly when you will get here they take it 
very easy and don’t make the least effort to be on time for 
the coaches. But there are always dozens of men and boys 
hanging around the Capitol tavern where they all stop for 
the fresh horses and if you should arrive and find nobody there 
you could send down word to the store or to the house every¬ 
body knows where we live by any of them and I will send 
Nathan down with the carriage right away you won’t have 
to wait any time and if it happened I couldn’t come myself 
you would know the horses anyhow and Nathan is a tall thin 
boy with a kind of high nose and blue eyes you will know him 
by the eyes. But I’ll be sure to come for I feel as if I couldn’t 
wait to see you. 

Just now we are very comfortably fixed for servants but 
nobody knows how long it will last it’s a perfect procession 
through my kitchen. The hired man has been doing very 
well and seems to be steady. We gave him a half-holiday 
on the Fourth so that he could see the celebration and then 
he disappeared and I made sure he had gone off to get drunk 
the way they all do but it seems he had walked out in the 
country to see the people he used to live with and he was at 
work the next day as sober as could be. However I am afraid 
he is learning the impudent ways of the rest of them because 
the other day I was out in the garden standing over him to 
see that he weeded it properly and I just thought I would 
give him a talking-to in a nice way you know about his 
manners never saying but yes ma’am and no ma’am. So I 
told him how nice the colored people in the South were and 
that nobody ever had to tell them a thing about it they are 


THE MAIL-BAG 


57 


so good-tempered and have so much natural refinement about 
some things. You know they just watch the white people 
the quality they call them Nathan I said and imitate them — 
that means do exactly the way the white people their masters 
do and that's the reason all the negro-servants have such 
lovely manners now don't you think you could do that? 
He looked at me and said in his drawl Well but Mrs. Ducey 
I haven't seen any white person I wanted to imitate yet. 
Did you ever Ma? That's just a sample of the kind of thing 
you get from servants up here. I said Nathan there is one 
thing I won’t have and that is impertinence and I shall tell 
Mr. Ducey what you have said and I went back to the house. 
So when Will came home I told him and he was very angry 
and was going out to send Nathan right off when Uncle 
George who happened to be here stuck in his oar and I must 
say I think he is very dictatorial and said he’d rather have a 
rude boy hoeing beans and minding his business than a polite 
one who wasn't worth his salt like all the rest we’d had except 
Nathan. And he said if we dismissed him we’d be the los¬ 
ers for a boy like that could get a job anywhere and he'd 
probably be better satisfied some place where the lady of the 
house didn't hold up niggers for him to pattern after. Of 
course I hadn't done anything of the kind but there is.no 
use trying to argue with Uncle George he is so obstinate 
the only way to do is to go ahead and have your own way and 
let him growl around. But Will crinkled right down and said 
he guessed it was more ignorance than impudence on Na¬ 
than's part and maybe I’d just better let him alone in future. 
William does make me so mad sometimes he thinks because 
Uncle George set him up in business when we came here to 
live that he has to be influenced by everything Uncle George 
says when dear knows he's paid Uncle George ten times over 
not in money I believe he owes him some yet but in other 
ways. Just look at the perfectly wonderful way he's run the 
store there isn’t such another man in a thousand. But I 
simply was not going to be bulldozed that way so I just said 
Very well if Nathan can get another job so readily he may try 
I am very glad to hear it but I will not submit to impudent 
servants and you know mother how much will-power I have 
even Uncle George can't bend me when I know I’m right. I 
was going out to dismiss him myself when luckily for Nathan 


58 


NATHAN BURKE 


Georgie the child has the sweetest disposition began to cry 
and said Oh please Ma don’t send Nathan away oh please 
don’t he’s promised to take me out hunting some day and he 
said he’d teach me to swim. And then he went on and begged 
so hard I just couldn’t help giving in — the dear little fellow! 
So Nathan got off for once but it shan’t happen again for I 
won’t put up with any such behavior. 

George and Francie are in the wildest state of excitement 
about seeing Grandma. Georgie has been going around 
for days saying Oh I wonder if she’s brought my bonearrers. 
I couldn’t imagine what bonearrers was until by questioning 
I found out he meant a bow-and-arrows which you promised 
him last year. Francie insists that you said you would give 
them to him if he learned Instruct me in Thy statutes Lord 
Thy righteous paths display so as to say it off without a mis¬ 
take the whole hymn. But she is probably only saying so 
to tease him for he vows you never said anything of the 
sort and he is a very truthful child as you know. Francie 
herself is perfectly immersed in making you a bead reticule 
out of lavender silk twist crocheted with steel beads in a 
Greek Key pattern she got out of Godey’s. Of course she 
can’t do it and has to ravel it out and fix it over again a dozen 
times a day I believe she goes to bed with it and it will be as 
black as the chimney-back before she’s finished it but she will 
do it you never saw such persistence. The child is not the 
least like dear Sister she’s all Blake. The other day I heard 
her out in the kitchen asking Mary if she wouldn’t please do 
something for her. I called her right in to me and said 
Francie dear that is not the way for a little lady to speak to 
the servants you must always be nice and pleasant but never 
say please or thank you that’s for them to say to you. She 
didn’t seem to understand at all and I had the greatest trouble 
explaining to her about keeping them in their places. She’s 
not very quick you know altho’ a good sweet child as any 
child of Sister’s would be sure to be. 

I must close this letter or it won’t get off and I’m right 
down at the bottom of the page anyhow. With dear love 

Ann. 


CHAPTER V 


In which we hear a Little Ancient History 

Long years before the hot radiant summer afternoon on 
which the last of those letters of which Chapter Four is made 
up was written and despatched by that lightning-footed 
messenger Finned's Coach, long before there were any coaches 
or any roads in that part of the world or indeed any State of 
Ohio or State of Louisiana, and long before Mr. Nat Burke 
arrived to confer immortality upon his particular section of 
the country, old George Marsh set foot for the first time upon 
the soil of the New World at Castle Garden; and looking 
about him, I daresay with some wonder but very little con¬ 
cern, struck out with a sturdy heart into the strong current 
of adventure. He was not old George Marsh in those days, 
however; he was twenty-one or -two, not much the senior of 
the Republic whereof he proposed to become a citizen, when 
the brig Royal Charlotte, forty-seven days out from Bristol, 
discharged him upon the pier at New York with a little ready 
money in his pockets and the rest of his savings (thirty odd 
pounds) sewed into the lining of his waistcoat. It was good 
West-of-England broadcloth, that waistcoat, and George 
wore it for ten years, until his increasing girth obliged him 
regretfully to put it aside. Already this emigrant displayed 
some of the qualities of a desirable member of the common¬ 
wealth; among them a solid intelligence and a slow yet 
trustworthy sense of humor, a surprisingly clear, cool, and 
hard head for so young a man, entire honesty coupled with 
shrewdness, an aptitude for affairs, and a constitution that 
carried him in triumph to the age of fourscore, undeterred 
by a dozen changes of climate, the ordinary accidents and 
misadventures of life, the fevers of the soil, and the murderous 
medical practice of his day. 

He came, he stayed, he prospered. George had learned 
no profession nor trade, his gifts not lying in that direction, 

59 


60 


NATHAN BURKE 


but at any sort of bet, bargain, or dicker he achieved almost 
from the first essay a notable success. People talked fa¬ 
miliarly or contemptuously of Marsh’s luck; but in Burke’s 
observation — which, to be sure, only embraced some half¬ 
score of his later years — there was no such thing; it was 
Marsh’s temperament, Marsh’s robust and steadfast confi¬ 
dence in himself. He was not reckless, he was never fool¬ 
ishly sanguine or uplifted; he would as soon have thrown his 
dollars in the fire as gone about boasting of how he made 
them and would make more. The core and secret of his suc¬ 
cess might, perhaps, be found in an utter lack of imagination, 
a kind of inability to perceive that things might turn to the 
bad for him; truly they never did, but George Marsh wasted 
no sleepless nights in worry about that possibility. By dint 
of believing in himself he won, without effort, the belief of 
others — potest quia posse videtur! His was the stolid and 
unemotional faith of the Briton, who would not know if he 
should be beaten, and out of this nettle danger will invariably 
pluck this flower safety. 

Old George, by the time Burke came to know him, pos¬ 
sessed few other distinctively British characteristics; he 
never went back to visit his native land, and became within 
a short while of his landing thoroughly Americanized in 
dress, speech, and habits of mind. If he did not go about 
dragging his coat-tails in the presence of the mother country, 
— such being the approved and popular attitude of that day 
for most Columbian patriots, — it was because that method 
of displaying one’s opinions was foreign to his character and 
indeed moved him to saturnine merriment. After a residence 
of some eight or ten years in the city of New York, during 
which he turned over his thirty pounds many times and ac¬ 
quired something of a name for parts and prudence, he left 
his affairs there under a trusted surveillance, and started for 
the South in search of new commercial worlds to conquer. 
He was now a well-established and well-to-do bachelor of 
thirty; the century was drawing to its close, and the Louisi¬ 
ana Purchase or who knows what other mighty changes 
looming on the horizon. For all Marsh’s prosaic turn, and 
oddly at variance with it, there must have been a sort of re¬ 
serve fund of restlessness, enterprise, and desire of adventure 
within him. It may be that is what beguiled him over-seas 


WE HEAR A LITTLE ANCIENT HISTORY 61 


in the beginning. Whatever feeling moved him, it was some¬ 
thing that could no longer be satisfied by his real-estate, 
mortgage-and-loan activities in New York ; and it is strange 
to behold this hard, resolute, acute, and thorough man of 
business, uninfluenced by boyish dreams or illusions, deliber¬ 
ately handing over all that he had worked so steadily to 
gain into the power of an always problematical deputy and 
departing, serene of mind, upon a hazard of new fortunes. 
When Burke got to know him well enough, he once ventured 
to probe him with a question or two about this action. “I 
wonder, Mr. Marsh,” said Nathan, “that you had the hardi¬ 
hood to intrust your business to anybody but yourself and 
walk off to New Orleans with a bag of money to see what 
could be done there. The whole thing might have gone up 
the chimney in the time it took to send a letter in those days. 
Didn’t it ever occur to you that your partner might — ? An 
honest man makes terribly costly mistakes sometimes, and a 
dishonest one with such opportunities —!” The old fellow 
shifted his tobacco, eying his questioner, and spat into one 
of the three-cornered wooden boxes filled with white sand or 
sawdust that were kept about the store for that purpose. 
“No, I never worried,” he said; “you see, Nat, I’d picked the 
right man.” 

With the advantage of added years, experience, and a much 
larger capital Marsh did as well in New Orleans as he had in 
New York, although from the first he had no great liking 
for either the climate or the.conditions. “Your money come 
pretty near too easy,” Burke has heard him say. “People 
lived high, made a lot, spent a lot. It’s that way all over the 
South. I lived in all about ten years there, but I never liked 
it — never liked it. I got out quick as I heard they were 
opening the Northwest Territory and going to make States 
out of it. I wouldn’t ever advise any young man to go South 
to live. Oh, I don’t say but what it’s a good place to make 
money in — to trade to, you know. I’ve done considerable 
of that in my time, sending flatboats down the river. Steam 
navigation’s about knocked all that business into a cocked 
hat, though, nowadays. You can send your goods down just 
the same, but the freight charges are so much higher there 
ain’t the profits in it there used to be. A whole fleet of flat- 
boats hardly cost you anything in those days. Everybody’s 


62 


NATHAN BURKE 


got a kind of rage for hurry, now. 1 You mark my words, 
the minute these railroads get good and going — and it won’t 
take long — the minute that happens, then the whole canal- 
boat trade will go to glory! That’s my judgment, sir, and I 
ain’t often mistaken. I’ve sold out what I held in the Miami 
and the Erie for that very reason — no use waiting till the 
bottom falls out of ’em. The other fellow can do that and 
then scoot around and scare up a buyer for his stock if he 
can; I’ll salt my money away somewhere else. Now the 
South hasn’t got any railroads or any canals, either; they 
think down there that this steamboat traffic on the Missis¬ 
sippi is going to last ’em till the end of time. It won’t. It 
won’t. Not if I know anything about it. You let some 
fellow with a little get-up-and-get come along and go to 
building a railroad or two, and where’ll your steamboat be ? 
It’s looking a good ways ahead, but it’s bound to come. Only 
thing is, they’re slow down there — that’s what I couldn’t 
stand when I lived there — they’re slow and they’re fairly 
et up with niggers. That’s why I say South’s no place for a 
young man. Make your money off ’em if you want to, but 
don’t live there.” 

Mr. Marsh’s own career bore out his theories. He turned 
his attention chiefly to the sugar and cotton markets while 
in New Orleans, and I believe made the bulk of his fortune 
there, coming away towards 1810 a much wealthier man 
than when he had arrived a decade earlier. This too, de¬ 
spite the fact that after having been two or three years in the 
city and observing a number of good opportunities, he had, 
acting with his customary promptness and decision, written 
to a younger brother in Bristol, paid his passage out, and set 
him up in business at a heavy outlay which, by the way, he 
never entirely recovered — perhaps never expected to re¬ 
cover. George was reputed a hard man, yet he was a good 
son, a good brother. I have seen some of the letters he wrote 
the family — a patriarchal English family of at least a dozen 
children — whom he left behind in Bristol. They are kind, 
blunt missives; he sent them money; he made them presents: 
Virginia tobacco, New England rum, and maple-sugar, a 
pair of white doeskin moccasins embroidered with beads and 

1 These words of wisdom were probably uttered about the year 
1840. What would old Marsh say now? 


WE HEAR A LITTLE ANCIENT HISTORY 63 


colored quills that he got of some Indian trader in what dusky 
wigwam of the wilderness for a little sister Sukey, of whom he 
was very fond. The child died in a consumption before 
these trifles reached her — a tragedy sad by its very little¬ 
ness. The family seem to have taken this liberality as their 
due; there is generally some one member of a connection 
playing Providence for all the rest. They accepted George’s 
offerings and asked for more, told him their debts and dis¬ 
tresses, reminded him of all the birthdays and weddings, 
thanked him and prayed for his welfare in good set terms. 
And followed his mandates with tolerable faithfulness con¬ 
sidering the distance of a thousand leagues or so from whence 
he issued them. In no one of their letters, not even his wid¬ 
owed mother’s, have I been able to discover a single refer¬ 
ence to his coming home; nor does he ever seem to have 
looked forward to a return and reunion himself. It was not 
long after his mother’s death, when the family, what with 
marriages and other deaths, seemed to be about to disin¬ 
tegrate, as families do, that George wrote to his brother Walter, 
suggesting the young man’s journey to America. Walter 
came pliably enough; and it must have been a strange meet¬ 
ing. The brothers had not seen each other for twenty years; 
Walter was a mere child when George left home. Were they 
pleased, surprised, disappointed ? Old George, in later years, 
rarely referred to his brother, and then with a certain toler¬ 
ance or negligence — quite unconscious, I am sure — as if he 
might have been speaking of a child. He was so much older 
than the other, and of so essentially different a character and 
experience, that they could not in nature have been compan¬ 
ions. Perhaps George found it unexpectedly difficult to hold 
Walter up to his standards of business energy; he may have 
discovered in his junior occasional obliquities and weaknesses 
for which, in his harsh judgment, there was no excuse. It is 
undeniable that W. Marsh, Produce and Commission, the 
concern that started out with so fine a flourish, would have 
gone to the wall half a dozen times but for George’s money, 
his clear head, his quick and vigorous action. It was not 
long before George Marsh, who had not lived and labored to 
the age of forty without becoming pretty conversant with 
men and the world at large, relegated his brother to a shelf 
of ample salary and almost no duties, “ picked out the right 


64 


NATHAN BURKE 


man, ” according to his habit, for the management of the 
produce-and-commission business and turned his own eyes 
to the great Northwest Territory and the new fields. He 
wearied of the lotos, this hardy Ulysses, stable of purpose 
among all his wanderings. Gladly he resigned to Walter 
that pursuit of making money too easily — or of spending 
it more easily still, for which the younger man had exhibited 
such an aptitude. George did not commit the mistake of 
supposing that he had enlisted Walter’s gratitude and affec¬ 
tion by his generous provision; he knew better. That is a 
brave soul that can support the sense of obligation nobly. 
Do you and I like the man we owe ? Would we not rather a 
thousand times he owed us, no matter what our loss and 
inconvenience ? And am I grateful or am I only anxious to 
pay him off and be done with him ? Of all the fantastic masks 
wherein humanity delights to trick itself, I think that Grati¬ 
tude and Benovolence wear the most ironic face. Here lies 
Lazarus at my gate — a painful sight, for I am a compassion¬ 
ate creature. Faugh! Take the poor wretch up, see to his 
sores, feed him, shelter and comfort him, not alone that he 
may suffer less, but that I may sleep a little better. Do you 
wonder that he is not always grateful ? The fact is that Laz¬ 
arus, being whole once more, is ashamed of the ditch, and the 
doorstep, and the curs that licked him. He would be as well 
pleased never to see me again who put him in mind of his 
degradation; he wants, naturally enough, to pay me out and 
go his way and forget that miserable hour. 

Walter may have chafed under the burden of George’s 
liberality, but he never made any effort towards discharging 
that account; and, after all, George had taken the respon¬ 
sibility of transplanting his brother and in conscience he 
should bear the costs. Unlike his senior,-Walter took very 
kindly to the semi-tropic heats, the linen clothes, the Panama 
straws, the juleps, the gumbos, the dazzlingly pretty girls, 
and fire-eating gallants of his adopted country. Walter 
was a good-looking and highly ornamental young man, a 
dandy, a great beau. In a society where perhaps birth and 
pedigree counted more than in any other city on the conti¬ 
nent, it was particularly easy to believe the report mysteri¬ 
ously spread abroad shortly after his arrival that he was the 
banished scion of some illustrious house, instead of the fifth 


WE HEAR A LITTLE ANCIENT HISTORY 65 


or sixth son of an honest green-grocer of Bristol. And if that 
did not exactly account for his brother George, it was also 
quite easy to believe that the name and relationship, for some 
romantic reason, were alike a blind. Even George himself 
never denied it. He used to grin diabolically, watching his 
brother cringe and change color when these stories were 
hinted at in their joint presence. “Ask him, he’ll tell you,” 
he would say. “Isn’t it strange how such a tale should 
have got around? Ask him, sir; I know my place; I ain’t 
going to tell tales out o’ school. I can’t say anything —- 
but, honestly now, d’ye think we look much alike?” In 
fact, George, who was ten or twelve years older than the 
other, who wore a coat five seasons behind the fashion, who 
chewed tobacco, who sometimes went unshaved for days, who 
tied his neckcloth like a halter and was sadly indifferent to 
the state of his wristbands and finger-nails, who shunned the 
society of women and was only too ready with an oath or a 
foul word — honest, coarse, hard-headed, bargain-driving 
George showed no sort of resemblance to Walter, than whom 
a finer young gentleman never existed. The institution of 
slavery appeared to him extremely beneficial to all parties 
concerned, whereas George, for sundry utilitarian reasons, 
disapproved of it. One of Walter’s earliest acts was to pro¬ 
vide himself with a lively and well-trained body-servant, for 
whom George paid fourteen hundred dollars, getting a slight 
discount at that. George owned no slaves himself; he 
knotted his unspeakable cravat with his own hands; his 
boots went unblacked — why not ? He could afford to 
please himself, and we may imagine that Walter many a time 
viewed with envy that slattern independence. Riches and 
poverty can do as they choose; it is the middleman that 
must keep up an appearance. I knew a millionnaire once that 
wore a straw hat all winter! If I should try it, my friends 
would have me in the poor-house the next day. George was 
not a millionnaire, but there was plenty of money in the 
pockets of those soiled, shiny, old drab breeches, and Walter 
lived on him, and disliked him, and was afraid of him in 
true brotherly fashion. 

Some time in 1805 Walter married. He married Cornelia, 
second daughter of Daniel Patrick, Esquire of Avoyelles 
Parish, Louisiana. George, who was away in the North at 


66 


NATHAN BURKE 


the time of the wedding (a good deal to Walter’s relief), pro. 
fessed to regard the match as a prodigious stroke of business. 
“Three hundred niggers! By damn, Walt’s done better 
than I looked for!” he said with a sardonic relish; “trouble 
is, it’s a whaling big family and there won’t be so much apiece 
when the slaves and the plantation come to be divided up 
among ’em. However, they’ll always have a roof over their 
heads and a belly-full of victuals, anyhow.” Such was Mr. 
Marsh’s enlightened attitude towards the holy estate of 
matrimony. He relaxed somewhat upon meeting the bride, 
who was a pretty, gentle, fond, young creature. “ I — I hope 
you’ll be happy with Walter, my dear,” he said, holding her 
timid little hand awkwardly; “’tain’t all roses, you know — 
a person’s got to take the world as it comes. Don’t be afraid 
of me — I’m kind of rough, I reckon, but you won’t see me 
often. Here’s a little something to buy knick-knacks with. 
Name one of the babies Sukey, will you?” Little Mrs. 
Walter shrunk from him in spite of his gruff kindness; she 
clung to her Walter whom she thought the handsomest, 
cleverest, most noble man in the world, and wondered how he 
could have such a brother. Was it true that Walt was really 
the son of the Earl of Langham and his name not Marsh at 
all, and George only his father’s factor? Walter hushed her 
questions with a mystic smile. But that story survives yet 
among some of their numerous descendants, and will probably 
be in circulation on the Day of Doom. 

George Marsh, in accordance with his prediction, was not 
a frequent visitor at his brother’s house. Walter never 
could have been much at ease in his company, and more than 
likely Mrs. Walter found it hard to endure his slovenly habits, 
his coarse manners, the overbearing style in which he some¬ 
times addressed her precious Walter, who was too generous 
and too thoroughly a gentleman ever to resent it. George 
meant well, George had a kind heart, she knew that, but, 
mercy—! George understood her; her little patient or 
patronizing airs moved him at once with a cynical amuse¬ 
ment and a kind of pity. I have no doubt he had his hours 
of lonesomeness and longing, this middle-aged, unlovely 
sceptic; he would have liked a little affection, this shaggy 
bug-bear, under whose eyes the negro servants trembled, 
flying about their work with a frantic energy. His brother’s 


WE HEAR A LITTLE ANCIENT HISTORY 67 


little girls received his presents in awestruck silence, or were 
made to thank Uncle George in neat, cut-and-dried speeches; 
they never dreamed of loving him, and he was by far too much 
of a philosopher to expect it. When these weak desires as¬ 
sailed him, he probably shut them out of his heart, and turned 
with a greater zest to his desk and ledgers. Nobody knew 
how much George was worth by this time; indeed he went 
North for good five or six years after the marriage, and 
thenceforward was seldom seen in New Orleans. He settled 
himself (permanently at last) in Ohio, took up land right and 
left, bought, sold, loaned, borrowed, turned his dollars about 
and about, shrewd, confident, and successful as always. The 
second war with Great Britain came on, passed over with a 
financial panic, a wake of hard times, yet left George Marsh 
unscathed. The last visit he made to the South was in 1817, 
after his brother’s death, when he went to settle up Walter’s 
affairs, which were in a very involved state. “They’d about 
run through everything,” he told Burke years —twenty-five 
years — afterwards in one of his moments of confidence; 
“I saved what I could out of the muddle for Cornelia, but it 
was so little she thinks to this day that Brother George 
‘took advantage.’ She couldn’t tell what was being done, 
and she only knows they always lived very handsomely and 
had everything they wanted, and it was certainly very strange 
that when poor Walt died, Brother George should come along 
and take charge of everything and presently tell her there 
wasn’t anything left! Of course I ‘ took advantage ’ — 
that’s how I made my money, ‘taking advantage,’ hey? 
Lord love you, Nathan Burke, that’s what a man gets for 
being saving and upright and industrious and careful. I’m a 
rich man, and Walter died, and when I wound up his affairs, 
the widow and orphans didn’t get anything — therefore I 
fleeced ’em. Logical, ain’t it? I set him up in business 
and kept him going for years — and here I am rolling in 
money and he was fairly smothered with debts — so, of course, 
I must have cheated him. That follows, don’t it ? I pay 
my debts and work hard and live straight and my neighbor 
trusts me because I’ve always treated him square — so it’s 
perfectly natural for me to turn around and skin my own 
brother’s children — oh, yes! By God, they wanted to have 
a funeral that would have cost a thousand dollars, and the 


68 


NATHAN BURKE 


very shirt Walt died in wasn’t paid for. I’ll bet there wasn’t 
a loan-shark in N’Orleans I didn’t dicker and jaw into some 
kind of compromise — and if I hadn’t, where’d they have 
been ? On the county, sir! Cornelia’s relatives couldn’t 
do a thing for her — they were all in the same box together 

— nice, pleasant, good-looking, easy-going lot you couldn’t 
trust with money any more than you could a child. They 
didn’t like me — Lord, no! But, by damn, sir, they found 
me mighty convenient. Oh, well, you can’t blame a woman 

— what do they know about it ? Cornelia knows at the 
bottom of her heart that I’ve done pretty well by her and the 
girls; likely she thinks it’s because I’m kind of remorseful. 
But they know I’ve done what was right by ’em in the long 
run. They ain’t any of ’em mercenary — at least they ain’t 
conscious of it — they do their best to be kind and civil to 
me. They think Uncle George is a pretty rough customer, 
and if I was a poor old man and had to be taken care of, they 
wouldn’t be fighting for the job — but they’d do it, in the 
end. They’re all right; their hearts are in the right place. 
Most peoples’ are, Nat, most peoples’ are. Almost every¬ 
body does what’s right. You’d rather, you know, even if 
you got the little end of the bargain by it. Cornelia and the 
girls just think it ain’t very nice to have me ’round spitting 
tobacco-juice all over their nice new carpets — what d’ye 
call ’em — Wilton ? But they ain’t really mercenary — 
they’d just about as lief have my money as not, but they 
ain’t sitting around waiting for me to die. ’Tain’t many 
people that are as mean as that. No, they ain’t mercenary — 
only I bet ther’d have been hell to pay if I’d ever wanted to 
get married — ho, ho!” 

Old George told the bare truth when he said (very simply 
and with no notion of vaunting himself) that he had done 
well by his brother’s children. He would have brought 
them all North and made a home for them if the poor widow 
had not tragically insisted on going back to her mother on the 
Avoyelles plantation. He sent the girls to school; he pro¬ 
vided them handsomely with clothes, trinkets, pocket-money; 
he had them North regularly every summer and took them 
on delightful jaunts even as far as Philadelphia and New 
York; and gave them royal presents as they successively 
married. It is doubtful whether they would have fared as 


WE HEAR A LITTLE ANCIENT HISTORY 6$ 


well had their father lived. All the girls married absurdly 
young according to present-day ideas; and, as they were a 
prolific race the family with these ramifications is scattered 
widely up and down all our Southern States. The oldest 
daughter was the only one of them who married in the North, 
having met William Ducey while on one of their visits to 
Uncle George. The old man never interposed any advice 
about these matches. “It’s a kind of hit-or-miss business 
anyhow, marrying/’ was his philosophic creed; and it is 
only fair to say that they all turned out very well — all but 
one, that is. 

4 It was several years before Burke, who was not troubling 
his head much at that time about the Marshes and their 
affairs, learned what Mrs. Cornelia Marsh and all her family 
considered the ghastly circumstances of Cornelia the young- 
er’s marriage. They kept poor little Francie’s parentages 
secret as if there had been something disgraceful about it; 
and it happened that Mr. Marsh was the person who en¬ 
lightened Nathan by casually mentioning some of the facts 
in the course of talk one day. It never would have entered 
into old George’s mind that the subject was one either to be 
avoided or gossiped over; he was without affectations; and 
I have forgot now what led him to refer to it. “ Connie — 
my niece, Cornelia, Francie’s mother, you know — was the 
prettiest one of the girls,” he said; “just about set her mother 
wild when she run off and married an actor. So far as I 
know he was a decent enough fellow and treated Connie 
right. But they’ve always had a great notion of family , and 
I guess Cornelia had looked pretty high for Connie — 
wanted her to marry some rich planter’s son, likely — she 
might have been a heap worse off. I’m a plain man myself — 
I don’t go much on family. Only objection I could see to it 
was that actors are a kind of shiftless, hand-to-mouth set, and 
Connie mightn’t have had a very comfortable time of it. 
She didn’t live to find out, poor girl! They both died within 
a week of each other — of the fever, you know — down there 
in N’Orleans the summer of ’29 or ’30, I forget which. 
They’d only been married a year or so and just had the one 
little girl. Ducey was in business down there and not doing 
very well, either, betwixt you and me and the post. His wife 
got scared, and you know when Anne Ducey’s got her head 


70 


NATHAN BURKE 


set, Burke, there ain’t anybody can do a thing with her; the 
fever got pretty bad, and she just made Ducey pack up and 
let the business go to pelhenny and took her own baby and 
little Francie and cleared out for Ohio and Uncle George. 
Young man, what did I tell you? The South ain’t any 
place to live in! ” 


CHAPTER VI 


Res Angusta Domi 

If Nathan had known what was within those letters of 
Mrs. Ducey’s which he so carefully carried to the post for 
her, he might possibly, even at that early date, have felt 
the same twitch of amusement with which he read them in 
after days. We may not want our valets to think us heroes, 
but let no man disregard his servant’s opinion of him or 
suppose that he permits himself no criticisms. If all the 
hirelings could get the public ear and valorously tell all they 
know and have seen, what a destruction of reputations there 
would be, and what a reversal of sentiment! In six weeks 
Nat, who was only a boy and not an unusually gifted boy 
at that, or any way more astute than others, knew Mrs. 
Ducey with a perfect thoroughness and certainty, whereas she 
knew him not at all. In fact, the idea that a hired man 
could have a character other than the marketable one for 
honesty and sobriety would have struck her as a laughable 
novelty, in the way of theories. Perhaps if he had been a 
woman, Nathan, like the other maidservants, would not have 
remained long in the Ducey household; but belonging to 
the opposite sex he very soon unconsciously adopted towards 
Mrs. Anne the attitude of her husband, her uncle, every man 
with whom she came in contact — an attitude of humorous 
and affectionate tolerance. Her prettiness delighted the 
senses; her unreasonableness tickled infinitely; there was 
to the masculine mind something amusingly womanly and 
winning in her sweet-tempered obstinacy; she was so anxious 
to be kind one forgot that she was not in the least humane. 
What man ever lived who demanded that a woman should 
be logical ? What man ever seriously resented a woman’s 
tyrannies? Here I sit who have paraded at the head of 
armies and issued centurion’s orders, here I most abjectly 
sit, a petticoat-governed man, and care not who knows it! 
My daughter commands me to eat oatmeal porridge which 

71 


72 


NATHAN BURKE 


I abhor — but do I rebel ? Not I. I sit down and eat it \ 
I swathe myself in loathed woollens, I swallow quarts of 
abominable physic at her behest. Unquestionably I wouldn’t 
do it for my son; I would invite him with much forcible 
language to mind his business and let me alone. My son 
and I would have a more peaceable house, but would it be so 
happy ? I think not. My daughter would endure tortures, 
she would lie through thick and thin to save me from an en¬ 
tirely just and merited punishment — but she wouldn’t trust 
me with the brandy bottle ! Yet she knows me to be a tem¬ 
perate man, she believes with all her heart and soul that I 
am a gentleman. She stoutly supports the theory that her 
father is the greatest warrior, statesman, jurist that ever 
existed — and then she reads the old fellow lectures becom¬ 
ing to an audience of fifteen-year-old children. I fear they 
fall on unfruitful soil, like some of those Nat Burke used to 
receive from Mrs. Ducey, forty odd years ago. 

The boy always tried to listen respectfully; he cut the 
grass, he rubbed the harness, he groomed the horses to the 
best of his ability, feeling first surprise, then perhaps a little 
resentment, and then a profound and lasting amusement 
at Mrs. Ducey’s painstaking supervision. She stung his 
pride to the quick, yet for the soul of him Nathan could not 
be angry with her. There was, after all, something attrac¬ 
tively free and fearless in her absurd bullying, her supreme 
confidence that she was always in the right; a certain 
strength of character showed through all her suspicion and 
stubbornness. Nathan, who could not have understood 
any of these fine phrases at the time, nevertheless obscurely 
felt their meaning. He used to observe the Marys, Susans, 
Bridgets, who filed in and out of the Ducey kitchen, some 
angry and impudent, some forlorn, bewildered, futilely pro¬ 
testing, with a puzzled wonder. Why was it that none of 
them could get along with Mrs. Ducey ? He had no trouble. 
She — why, she didn’t mean anything — you just had to 
know how to take her. And look how kind and good she 
was if you were sick or hurt yourself — or anything. These 
arguments, when he occasionally advanced them, were with¬ 
out effect; one and all, the cooks and chambermaids turned 
on him with helpless fury. What did he know about it — 
nothing but a boy. They wouldn’t be talked to that way 


RES ANGUSTA DOMI 


73 


by Mrs. Ducey, talked to as if they was — as if they was — 
they was respectable girls, they wouldn’t go for to do any 
such thing as Mrs. Ducey said they did. They were doing 
their best, and everything can’t always be right, and they 
hadn’t any more idea where her silver pickle-tongs was than 
the man in the moon, and it was the first time they had ever 
burned anything, and they worked hard, and they never 
slapped Georgie in the world, he told a big story when he 
said they did, and indeed you may talk your head off, Eliza, 
for all the good it’ll do you, she’ll just say “H’m!” And — 
oh, shut up, Nathan, you ain’t nothing but a boy! Heavens, 
how many of these shabby little dramas did Nat witness! 
They passed over without leaving much impression on him; 
he supposed all feminine households were the same; it was 
in the nature of women shut up in the house together all day 
long to squabble, he opined. When, as sometimes happened, 
his employer surreptitiously stole out and bestowed on the 
departing ones kind words and a little extra money, the 
boy viewed that proceeding with utter contempt. If Ducey 
was going to let his wife run things, he ought to let her, Nat 
thought in his sharp, boyish judgment; he could not under¬ 
stand why, if Ducey disapproved of these domestic changes, 
he allowed them and compounded with the sufferers after 
this feeble fashion. Nat forgot the peace-at-any-price 
policy that often controlled his own relations with Mrs. Anne. 
He only saw that Ducey loved his wife, petted her, gave in 
to her, teased, played with, and spoiled her, as no man should 
a grown sensible woman — and in spite of all, Nathan 
thought the gray mare was the better horse. The boy, 
from the detachment of his position, saw with the uncanny 
clearness of vision belonging to his years that there was 
something at once foolish and wrong-headed in William 
Ducey’s attitude towards his wife. Anne had enough of 
character, of heart, of good sound sense; she need not be 
treated like a child. William alternately lavished money 
on her and complained about the bills, scolded her, made 
fun of her, offered her amends with presents, flowers, gim- 
cracks, bonbons, toys for Georgie, and what-not. By turns 
he was master in his own house and slave; whereas Anne, 
at least, was a consistent despot. Her mind and methods 
were alike direct; she had her way by force and arms, with 


74 


NATHAN BURKE 


no thought of evasion or compromise, the ordinary feminine 
arts being entirely unknown to her. She never persuaded, 
she commanded, equally tactless and truthful. She loved 
and admired her husband beyond measure; she was not at 
all vain, but she delighted in being pretty for his sake, and 
would spend hours dressing her hair, or prinking before her 
mirror, to please him. All her tyranny was exerted solely 
to make his home comfortable and happy; she had a spirit 
so willing, so gay, so generous, and lovable it was a shame 
to make a baby of her. But fifteen years of married life had 
accomplished that end as nearly as possible with a character 
intrinsically so strong as Mrs. Ducey’s; and Nathan him¬ 
self joined in the conspiracy. 

William Ducey at this time was a tall, slender, rather 
Byronic-looking gentleman, extremely pale or sallow, with 
a kind of melancholy distinction about him, which, in spite 
of his wife’s fond pride, was, as it were, quite without founda¬ 
tion. Yes, appearances and Mrs. Ducey to the contrary 
notwithstanding, William was a very everyday mortal of 
an amiable, easy-going disposition, upright and kind-hearted 
and without especial talents in any direction. He had 
thick, black, and shining hair which he was exceedingly par¬ 
ticular about keeping well oiled and in a great state of curl; 
a neat and I daresay tolerably expensive taste in waist¬ 
coats; and a perfectly unromantic wholesale-grocery business 
downtown. William Ducey & Co. flourished in gilt letters 
above the door: and, at short intervals, there appeared in 
the Journal , according to the naive custom of our day, 
advertisements of “goods now unloading and for sale,” or 
“rec’d per late arrivals: 

50 Drums Codfish: 

20 Tierces Rice: 

13 Casks Winter Sperm Oil: 

100 Bbls. Molasses: 

80 Bags Pimento: 

60 Bales Sisal Hemp: 

12 Boxes Assorted Fruits: 

5 do; do; Havana Sweetmeats,” etc. 

In the course of time Nathan, journeying thither almost 
daily on the household errands, became pretty intimate in 


RES ANGUSTA DOMI 


75 


this establishment. A staff of active young clerks, some 
of them no older than himself, officiated amongst the spices, 
sugars, and sacks of coffee, the Sisal Hemp, and all the rest 
of it. Mr. Ducey presided in a grimy little office, divided 
off at the rear of the long warehouse by a high wooden par¬ 
tition with panes of window-glass let into the upper third of 
it for extra light. But did Mr. Ducey preside ? There he 
always sat enthroned at his desk in a majestic pose of busi¬ 
ness absorption, surrounded by bill-files and heaped papers; 
but Nat had a suspicion strengthened by the nods, winks, 
grins, and obscure jokes of the shirt-sleeved brigade in front 
that this section of the premises was really the den and 
stronghold of Co. — Co., who sported a mangy old brown 
beaver hat and an old blue broadcloth tail-coat, white at all 
the seams, with the brass edges of its huge buttons cutting 
through the stuff that covered them; Co., who was not at 
all fastidious about Ms bristling stiff white hair, whose 
striped satinet waistcoat was furrowed with trenches filled 
with powdered tobacco, who went like as not with the straps 
burst under his soiled old cassimere breeches, and trailing 
about his instep; Co., who got down an hour earlier than 
anybody else in the morning, and stayed to see the shutters 
up at night; who looked over the balance-sheet every month, 
every week, every day for what I know, cursing and growl¬ 
ing and whistling under his breath; who knew the name and 
amount of sales of every clerk in the place; whose little 
sharp old eyes beneath their heavy brows missed nothing that 
went on from the top floor to the cellar — Co., who, in short, 
was known outside these precincts and to society at large 
by the style and title of Mr. George Marsh. Any hour of the 
day you might hear him behind his fastnesses, expounding 
some point of trade in his coarse, strong, deliberate voice 
from which fifty years of America had eliminated every 
trace of British accent or pronunciation, to a customer, 
perhaps even to Ducey himself. It was not a pleasant voice, 
nor was his at all a pleasing personality, but the sound and 
presence of this old man inspired confidence and a certain 
enthusiasm of industry; if those young clerks feared him, 
they also liked him; they respected his power, his success. 
They all knew or suspected that Marsh’s money had founded 
and was backing Ducey & Co., though upon what terms, 


76 


NATHAN BURKE 


they could, of course, only guess. The head book-keeper 
used to deliver himself quite freely to Nathan in moments 
of privacy when Ducey had gone home to dinner and Co. 
had repaired to his midday meal at the Erin-go-Bragh 
coffee-house, up High Street a little way, and just across 
from the Court-house. 

“ Yah! Ducey! Why, he don’t amount to a hill o’ beans,” 
this devoted servitor would remark, tilting his chair to the 
rear legs, and propping his heels on Ducey’s august desk; 
“Marsh is the backbone of this business and I do the figger- 
ing — that don’t leave much room for Ducey, I guess. 
Where does he come in, hey? When one of your farmer 
friends comes in for a trade, who does the talking ? Ducey ? 
Not by a long shot, he don’t. It’s Marsh. When he wants 
to know anything, who does he ask ? Ducey ? No, sirr-ee. 
He turns to me and says: ‘Quilldriver, what price did we 
make Laughlin Bros, on that last lot o’ mess pork — seventy 
barrels, wasn’t it ? ’ You bet he knows , too. He’s got it 
figgered down to a jay-bird’s toe. If I ever start in business 
for myself —” 

And so on, and so forth, thus Mr. Quilldriver — not his 
name, by the way, but in truth I cannot remember it, and 
have only in mind a vivid picture of this sprightly young 
gentleman and most expert accountant, with a pen behind 
his ear, cleaning his nails at leisure with a pearl-handled 
knife the while he holds agreeable converse with Nat Burke, 
who perhaps has come for a portion of those “5 do; do; 
Havana Sweetmeats” and is waiting for it to be weighed 
and tied up. “Course you don’t want to go blatting this all 
over town,” says the book-keeper, warningly; “but you 
ain’t much on the talk, Nat, and that’s the reason I’m tell¬ 
ing you — I wouldn’t talk like this to everybody and any¬ 
body, understand?” Wouldn’t you, oh, reticent Mr. Quill¬ 
driver? Nat was one of the somewhat taciturn people in 
whom, whether he will or no, everybody confides; I should 
not care to record all the hopes, fears, plans, complaints, 
protestations to which he has listened in his time. Some feel¬ 
ing of loyalty withheld him from airing his own views about 
his employers to the others ; but he could not close his ears to 
theirs; the young fellows would talk, and after all they told 
him nothing but what he knew or had guessed already. 


RES ANGUSTA DOMI 


77 


Mr. Ducey, in the lofty abstraction of his affairs, rarely 
noticed Nat's visits to the store and requisitions of soap, 
tea, starch, sugar, the hundred-and-one items Mrs. Ducey 
was constantly needing; but old George, for whom no detail 
of the business was too insignificant, speedily observed him, 
and, metaphorically speaking, jotted him down in some 
mental memorandum for future reference. “Is that the 
Burke boy?” he would bawl out from the back of the store, 
where, in the intervals of his activity, he would be sprawled 
in an ancient split-bottomed arm-chair, reading a trade 
journal, or making calculations with a scrap of paper and a 
pencil-stub on the back of his greasy pocket-book. There 
was absolutely no need for the old man’s industry and appli¬ 
cation; he had reached an age when most men would have 
been content to take their ease with so large a fortune as he 
had amassed. But work was the breath of his nostrils; to 
match his wits and will against those of other men his only 
recreation. You may see many such in the American busi¬ 
ness world; and there is something not far from pathetic 
in the spectacle of our commercial veterans spirited in har¬ 
ness to the end, so gallant in work, so touchingly helpless 
and awkward in play. By way of taking his one and only 
relaxation, old George, when trade was dull, would sometimes 
come out from his sanctum and move about freely among 
the attentive clerks with whom he would be quite jocose 
and familiar — and you may be sure they listened deferen¬ 
tially and guffawed at all his jokes, which were frequently 
pretty high flavored. Nathan, to whom Mr. Marsh had 
spoken directly only three or four times since the boy first 
saw him, was not aware of having attracted his attention 
at all, until the old man stopped in front of him one day as 
he waited on his errand, and remarked with a grin: — 

“You’re the boy, I understand, who never says anything 
but ‘yes’m’ and ‘no’m.’ Young man, haven’t you got any 
better manners than that ? Don’t you ever talk any ? ” 

“Not unless I’ve got something to say,” said Nat, a little 
surprised. 

The other looked at him with some interest, and turned 
his quid, staring meditatively. 

“That’s right, son, stick to that,” he said at last, nodding. 
“ Let the other fellow do the talking — if he keeps it up for 


78 


NATHAN BURKE 


half an hour, he’ll tell you what sort of man he is. How old 
are you ? ” 

‘Til be seventeen the first of the year,” Nathan told him. 

“You look older. Pretty near got your growth, I guess. 
What’s that you’ve got ? ” 

“It’s five pounds of Rio Mrs. Ducey wanted,” said Nat, 
preparing to depart. 

“I don’t mean that — I mean that book in your side 
pocket. Give it here,” said the old man, bending a sharp 
glance on him from under his shelving brows. 

“It’s a school-book — a grammar,” said the boy, flushing 
a little, but meeting the other’s eye as he handed over the 
volume. It had been knocking about in his pocket, so that 
he might have it handy for reading at odd times, yet was 
fairly clean and well kept, for Nat had a certain reverence 
for books, and besides had this not cost a dollar and a half 
of his monthly wage at Riley’s Book-store some three weeks 
previously? Old Marsh grunted, “Huh!” took the gram¬ 
mar, which was one of Mr. Murray’s, if I recollect aright, and 
ran a swift eye over it. He returned it with the natural 
question: — 

“Ever gone to school any?” 

“A little when I was a boy — when I was a little fellow, 
I mean,” Nat added, smiling himself as he detected a mo¬ 
mentary twinkle in Mr. Marsh’s deep-set eyes. “There 
wan’t — there wasn’t any district-school near enough for 
us to go to regular — regularly, I mean.” 

“Can you figger any?” 

“Not much good at it,” said Nathan, taking up his pack¬ 
age of coffee; and old Mr. Marsh finally allowed him to go. 
The boy knew that his slight affairs would not occupy the 
other’s mind for long. George Marsh had no time to waste 
on his niece’s hired man; still he felt some anxiety lest the 
old gentleman should casually mention this occurrence to 
Mrs. Ducey, and devoutly hoped he would forget all about 
it. Nat knew instinctively that that lady would consider 
books or any kind of book-learning the last thing in the world 
with which her chore-boy should meddle. Murray’s Gram¬ 
mar, indeed! And why wasn’t he digging the potatoes, 
pray tell? What would she say to Nat’s slender battery of 
knowledge ranged on the little shelf of his stable room, to 


RES ANGUSTA DOMI 


79 


the blurred copy-books over which he toiled by candle-light, 
perspiring in the hot summer nights, surrounded by a halo 
of gnats and moth millers? From the summit of my years 
I look down upon him with mingled sympathy and amuse¬ 
ment. He labors at his pot-hooks and capital-letters with 
the aid of an unsteady little deal table not large enough to 
accommodate the ink-bottle and his elbows at the same time. 
The bottle must be perilously balanced on the corner of the 
bed, and to this day he will reach and dip the pen with 
a wary hand, so firmly was that habit established. Once 
(horror!) Mr. Burke upset it all over the clean patchwork 
counterpane; a benevolent cook, understanding his fears, 
washed the stain out for*him by stealth — may her reward 
be great! That there is no royal road to learning Nathan 
could testify by hard experience; it was bestrewn — in his 
case — with the gory remains of dead mosquitoes and other 
night-flying gentry, for one thing. Yet once his desire was 
aroused it was in his nature to persevere; and there is this 
much to say for these late beginners that with ordinary gifts 
they will learn more thoroughly and apply what they learn 
with far greater readiness and accuracy than children of the 
usual age put down to study the same lesson. Almost all 
the knowledge we acquire before fourteen years or so is 
purely a mechanical accomplishment — a sort of feat of 
memory and nothing more. No one would advocate putting 
off a child's schooling until he reaches that age, but Nathan's 
experience is a living proof that the lost years need not be a 
serious drawback. There was nothing of the genius about 
him; he mastered the art of reading, naturally, with greater 
facility than the other branches, and I remember that his 
main struggle was with the temptation to do nothing but 
read to the utter neglect of penmanship, arithmetic, and 
geography. Even this taste, however, turned to his advan¬ 
tage, for he was not long in discovering that history which 
wears so solemn and forbidding a face upon the first ac¬ 
quaintance is in reality full of interest, action, stirring, and 
dramatic adventure; and gave himself up to that variety of 
reading thenceforward with a quiet conscience, although, in¬ 
deed Plutarch and Gibbon soon lost whatever charm of novelty 
they had for him; he was obliged to go over his books more 
than once, not being able to buy many. These solid works 


80 


NATHAN BURKE 


recalled to his mind for years thereafter not alone the glory 
that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome, but the 
companionable odor of hay and harness-oil from the loft 
adjoining, and the horses stamping beneath him. 

The young man was right in his estimate of Mrs. Ducey’s 
opinions, as he found out shortly after that interview with 
her uncle. For, being engaged in cutting the grass one after¬ 
noon, and pausing to whet his scythe, the gate clicked, and 
as he looked that way he beheld Mrs. Ducey entering and 
coming towards him with her usual brisk and alert bearing, 
beginning to speak — as was her habit — before she was 
well within hearing. She had been making visits, I dare 
say; her fresh, fashionable skirts trailed crisply about her — 
barege, popeline brochee, poult de soie — how do I know what 
they were ? These things are beyond the power of man. Solo¬ 
mon in all his glory was not arrayed like a well-dressed lady 
of Nat Burke’s young days; that respectable old Hebrew 
potentate would have made but a poor showing beside 
Mrs. Ducey, whose appearance unfailingly commanded all 
Nathan’s admiration. She was so daintily rich and bril¬ 
liant; rare flowers bloomed on her bonnets; she had all 
kinds of scarfs, veils, fringes, beads, and glittering trinkets. 
On this occasion she may have been wearing, for all I know, 
une robe redingote, faced with velours epingle , ornamented 
with bouillonnees , or Brandebourgs, or cocardes en choux — 
not that I have any idea what these decorations were. 
Heaven forbid ! The above morsel of description had come 
under Nat’s eye in the back of an odd number of The Lady's 
World of Fashion, with a group of simpering, delicately 
tinted sylphs on the opposite page in illustration, and being 
in a tongue not understanded of the people had puzzled him 
not a little. There has always been something very impos¬ 
ing to Mr. Burke in the spectacle of lovely woman thus 
attired; he stands tongue-tied in the Presence. And so he 
stood now, until Mrs. Ducey, with a young lady equally 
notable of aspect floating in her wake, had reached him. 

“ Nathan, I want you to be careful when you cut around 
the flower-beds. You oughtn’t to have begun when I wasn’t 
here to tell you — I’ve told you that before. Mr. Ducey 
doesn’t like for you to disobey me, Nathan; I’m surprised 
at you —” 


RES ANGUSTA DOMI 


81 


“Mrs. Marsh has been watching me — she’s up yonder 
on the porch,” said Nat, indicating the elder lady, who, in 
fact, had been superintending him vigilantly all afternoon. 
“I guess I couldn’t go very far wrong with your mother 
looking on, Mrs. Ducey,” said Nat, soberly. 

11 H’m! Mr. Ducey would be very angry if he knew you had 
disobeyed me, Nathan; you’re not to do it again. Is that 
your coat on the bush ? Don’t hang it on that syringa; it 
will break it down, it’s so heavy — and with that great big 
book in the pocket, too. Lay it on the ground somewhere. 
Is that one of your books, Nathan? What do you want 
with it?” 

“I want it to read, ma’am,” said Nat, feeling, to his vexa¬ 
tion, the blood rise in his face. “She oughtn’t to talk to me 
that way before — before that young lady — before people 
he thought. 

“Oh, yes, I remember now, I heard about your reading. 
Now don’t begin and neglect your work, just to read, 
Nathan. And don’t read that way in your room at night. 
I’m afraid you’ll set the stable on fire with your candle —” 

“I haven’t set it on fire with the lantern yet,” Nat re¬ 
minded her. 

“You mustn’t answer me back, Nathan,” said Mrs. 
Ducey, very gently and kindly; “that isn’t nice , you know. 
You’ll be sure to go to sleep and set the stable on fire with 
your candle — it’s very dangerous — of course you’re just 
a young boy and you don’t think of these things. You can 
take your book and go somewhere on Sundays when we 
aren’t driving out, or when you have a holiday, but you 
mustn’t dawdle around reading other times. Mr. Ducey 
wouldn’t like it. I’m coming, Ma, I’m coming. I’ve got 
Mary with me, she’s going to stay to tea. What ? Why, I 
said Mary — Mary Sharpless, you know. I made her come 
home with me. Now mind what I said, Nathan. Mr. Ducey 
wouldn’t like it if he knew you had been idle. Come along, 
Mary.” 

She was halfway to the porch already with the words, 
moving with her swift step that was yet so sure and graceful, 
like all her motions; nobody ever saw Mrs. Ducey stumble. 
Her clear incisive voice carried to the house and street with 
equal distinctness, and it seemed to Nathan as if the entire 


82 


NATHAN BURKE 


neighborhood were being advertised of the fact that Ducey’» 
hired man was loafing away his time. It was not true, and 
the young fellow’s face burned under his tan. He turned his 
eyes from Mrs. Ducey’s retreating back, and to his surprise 
encountered those of her visitor fixed on him. The young 
lady had not moved to follow her hostess; she was a young 
lady of a charming, straight, light, and slender figure; her 
black hair was modishly arranged in complicated loops and 
braids, smooth and glossy, as if carved in jet; those eyes 
which Nat looked down into were not black, however, but 
very large, soft, and gray, oddly encircled by long heavy 
black lashes. She smiled up at him to his thrilled bewilder¬ 
ment. 

“ Weren’t you whetting your scythe just now ? ” (This was 
the profoundly original remark she addressed to him.) “ I 
think that’s the most skilful thing — I often wonder how 
men do it. You move the whetstone so quick!” 

“It’s — it’s — it ain’t hard — it’s easy when you know 
how,” stammered Nathan. He rested one hand on the top 
of the blade and manoeuvred the stone with the other in a 
burst of lightning speed. Miss Mary Sharpless stood in 
rapt admiration. 

“ Let me try,” she said enthusiastically, seizing the tool 
with her small, elegant hands. Nat was still holding it, but 
she let it go promptly with a little cry. “Oh, mercy , isn’t 
it heavy ? However can you hold it ? How strong you 
must be!” 

“This scythe? Why, it’s light ,” said the boy, handling it 
with elaborate ease. 

“Mary, Mary, aren’t you coming? Ma wants to see you,” 
Mrs. Ducey called from the porch, and Miss Sharpless gave 
Nat another glance out of her odd and beautiful eyes, and 
walked away. 

Nathan so far obeyed Mrs. Ducey’s injunctions as to 
neglect Webster and fractions for that one night at any rate; 
and instead of applying himself, as heretofore, to those musty 
pursuits he mooned about the remote corners of the yard 
with a pipe, gradually edging nearer the house from a point 
whence his tobacco-smoke would drift off down the wind, 
such was the craft which he had suddenly developed. He 
saw Mr. Ducey escorting the guest back to her home at an 


RES ANGUSTA DOMI 


83 


appropriate hour; and being by this time near enough to 
hear the two other ladies on the porch, got what he deserved, 
the usual listeners’ wage. 

“Well, Ma, Will can talk all he pleases, I don’t want any 
literary chore-boys. Of course it’s all right for them to know 
how to read and write — everybody ought to know how to 
do that; But I think it’s perfectly absurd — all this talk about 
uplifting and educating that class. They aren’t fitted for 
it, and you just unfit them for their own people and don’t make 
them good enough for ours. It fills their heads full of ideas , 
and makes them unhappy and useless. Why, just look at 
the darkies at home; they can’t even read and write, and 
they’re as happy as the day is long — that just shows. I 
believe in people staying where the Lord put them to begin 
with, and not trying to be what He never meant them to be. 
It’s a great pity Nathan’s got this crazy notion of reading; 
he’ll get to be perfectly worthless before long.” 

Young Burke, in the darkness, uttered a distressingly 
profane ejaculation; it was the strongest in his vocabulary, 
and alas! I fear poor Nat’s boyish ears had heard much 
more than was good for them in those honest, hearty, coarse 
old days. Mrs. Ducey would have run away screaming 
with her hands to her face, she would have wildly refused to 
have him around another minute, if she could have seen and 
heard her hired man at this juncture. Worthless! The 
words were not intended for his ears, but even if Mrs. Ducey 
had known he was within hearing, it is to be doubted whether 
she would have moderated her voice. Come away, my 
friends, the young gentleman is not a handsome object as 
he stands there grinding his teeth and cursing in the dark. 
Let us leave him to his frightful schemes of giving notice 
the very next day, of getting another job at the foundry, 
on an Allegheny freight-wagon, a coach, a canal-boat, any¬ 
thing where people will treat him like a man. By to-mor¬ 
row morning he will have come out of his temper, he will 
think of it with ironic mirth. And when Nora whirls out 
of the dining-room, weeping tears of rage all over the platter 
of breakfast-bacon and vowing she won’t stay here and be 
talked to like that, there , Nathan will endeavor to soothe 
her with words of reason. For ourselves, had we not better 


84 


NATHAN BURKE 


join Mrs. Marsh and Mrs. Ducey on the porch? We may 
be just in time to hear another speech which Nat caught as 
he was striding away in a fume to his poor defamed books; 
it brought him up short, angry as he was. — 

“Mary Sharpless?” said Mrs. Ducey; and in answer to 
something inaudible from her mother, “Oh, yes, she hasn’t 
changed a bit, and never will, if she lives to be a hundred. 
Didn’t you see her actually making eyes at Nathan this 
afternoon? Mary can’t help it; she just can’t pass by any¬ 
thing in trousers.” 


CHAPTER VII 


In which is continued the Chronicle of Small Beer 

During Mr. Burke’s term of office the Ducey house per¬ 
petually overflowed with visitors; they came from New 
Orleans, from Natchez, from a dozen cities and plantations 
scattered up and down the Southern States. These troops 
of guests generally arrived to spend .the summer months; 
in the evenings the Ducey front-steps bloomed with lovely 
young ladies in flowing white skirts and twinkling necklaces, 
with dazzling white arms and the most bewitching little feet 
in tiny satin slippers. All the young men in town would 
congregate there; there was a prodigious consumption of 
lemonade and cakes and ices; the elegant square rosewood 
piano in the parlor would be opened, and two or three of the 
nymphs would execute thereon various tinkling and trip¬ 
ping pieces of music entitled “Showers of Pearls,” “Roses 
and Dewdrops,” and so on. Some of them could sing, “Isle 
of Beauty, fare thee well,” “Oh, why hast thou taught me 
to love thee?” “True love can ne’er forget,” and other of 
the sentimental ballads then in vogue. They were so sen¬ 
timental that the Duceys’ hired man invariably beat a 
retreat whenever he chanced to stray within the zone of 
melody; he had not much ear for music, as has been hinted, 
and all this talk about breaking hearts and gushing tears and 
golden lutes and sighs and smiles and kisses struck him as 
lackadaisical bosh; it made him ashamed — by Heavens, 
it makes him ashamed now! Even the picture which he 
sometimes glimpsed through the open windows of — shall 
we say ? — Miss Sharpless, a wreath of pale artificial flowers 
drooping delicately among her black braids and a low- 
necked, wide-spreading filmy muslin encompassing her trim 
figure, with her hands scampering up and down the keys 
in the accompaniment of another similarly attired virgin — 
even this tableau, which would have moved him ordinarily 
with an aesthetic delight, could not reconcile him to the 

85 


86 


NATHAN BURKE 


melancholy foolishness of those songs. He did not see Mary 
thus occupied very often; she came to the house infrequently, 
and Nat, with a dumb amazement, overheard Mrs. Ducey 
explaining to some intimate female caller that Mary Sharp¬ 
less was really a little too old for these girls. The young men 
did not seem to think so, but young men are notoriously bad 
judges. There was never wanting one of them to bring her 
to the house of an evening, to take her home, to hang over 
the piano while she performed astounding trills and varia¬ 
tions on that reliable instrument. These young bucks were 
elaborately brushed, scented, and oiled; each one wore a 
curling lock of hair disposed carefully in the middle of his 
forehead, and the rest of it waving down over his high velvet 
coat-collar, glossy, ambrosial! A single jewelled button 
glimmered from the midst of his shirt-front; he had glorious 
plaicled, brocaded, ringed, striped, and streaked waistcoats 
of sumptuous materials, seal-rings to decorate his fingers, 
slender, natty rattan canes, kid gloves of tender lavender 
and canary hues. Where are they gone, birds of bright 
plumage? Meminisse juvabit! Nathan Burke — who had 
neither part nor lot with them — cannot but recall them 
with tenderness. He used to look on from afar without 
envy; he enjoyed the double privilege of a certain intimacy 
with these gilded youths among the warehouses and offices 
down town, where their appearance was by no means so 
gilded, and of beholding the angels of the piazza and draw¬ 
ing-room at tolerably close range in the earlier hours of the 
day, when, to tell the truth, their attire and manners were 
not always nearly so angelic. 

Besides these, there were whole flocks of chirruping young¬ 
sters; Nat hardly knew them apart,- although he was con¬ 
stantly being called upon to take them out riding by the 
phaeton-load at once in bouquets of babies, to separate the 
little boys when they fought, to rescue the little girls from 
the advances of inquiring ganders and turkey-gobblers. Their 
mothers were forever running with screams to pluck them 
out of the hot sunshine like brands from the burning; if 
Nathan had carried out all the anxious orders he received to 
keep them away from the stable, the beehives, the well, 
the grindstone, he would have done nothing else. But in 
fact he never meddled with them unless he saw that they 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


87 


had ventured into some position of real risk, and then they 
obeyed him with signal alacrity. “ We were all afraid of you, 
Nat,” one of them told him long afterwards; “ we were afraid 
of you, you were so long and lean and quick, you had such 
a thin, hook nose and such sharp blue eyes. I saw you shoot 
a hawk once that had swooped down and snatched up a 
chicken. You did it with your rifle, and the hawk fell down 
dead in the middle of the yard, shot through its murderous 
hawk heart, and the hen wasn’t hurt after all. You skinned 
the hawk and nailed the skin up, spread eagle fashion on the 
barn-door, do you remember ? Afterwards we children used 
to pretend that you came down every night and wrapped 
up in the skin and feathers and went sailing — sailing — 
through the sky like a hawk yourself. Some of us half be¬ 
lieved it. The darky nurses at home had filled us full of 
spooks and bogies and savage fancies. How long were you 
here ? A year ? Two years ? I remember when we came 
back one summer there was another hired man, and you were 
gone and the hawkskin, too. Of course you had taken it 
with you — were-wolf ! ” 

Nathan used to hear the maidservants making loud moan 
about the extra work Mrs. Ducey’s “company” entailed; 
but dissatisfaction in that quarter was so common as to be 
scarcely noticeable. His own duties were not much heavier; 
the children minded him, and he looked upon them with 
much the same tolerance as upon the household pets, Fran¬ 
ce’s kittens, or George’s rabbits. It is in the nature of small 
boys to follow and ape a big boy, so that when the little fel¬ 
lows besieged him with entreaties to let them “hitch up” 
or turn the grindstone, to take them swimming, take them 
fishing, take them hunting, Nat, sympathizing with the 
universal boyish desires, sometimes complied — when the 
mothers would hear of it. Once, towards the close of his 
second year with the Duceys, he even took Georgie on a 
shooting expedition, after that young gentleman had pes¬ 
tered his parents, or rather his mother, into giving consent 
— no one thought of asking Nathan’s. To do him justice 
it was not often that George sought the hired man s society, 
being, it is more than likely, in the frame of mind of Doctor 
Fell’s patient who did not fancy that eminent practitioner: 
the reason why he could not tell, but ’twas a thing he knew 


88 


NATHAN BURKE 


full well. George was older than most of the other chil¬ 
dren whom he played with or teased or bullied, proceedings 
not unusual among boys, but he had few friends of his own 
age. Francie would come home from school with a whole 
battalion of pantaletted and leghorn-bonneted little dames 
like herself; they had tea-parties under the bushes and 
played house in the harness-room, when Nathan would let 
them. George had no companions; the child was sickly, 
he could not or would not join in the other boys’ games 
and enterprises. His mother lauded his obedience; but 
Nathan had a fancy that George singularly lacked the spirit 
of adventure. It was impossible to imagine him sneaking 
off to go in swimming or skating, or playing hookey for the 
sake of any kind of sport. These pursuits are very question¬ 
able; I do not defend them; I agree entirely with the out¬ 
raged ladies who will clap the book to at this point, loudly 
denouncing its author for a corrupt old villain, putting ideas 
into children’s heads. I repeat, these crimes cannot be too 
severely condemned — but is there a boy on this turning 
globe who has not committed them ? Georgie was an exem¬ 
plary character; he would never rob an orchard or a melon 
patch in the world; he would share the spoil, but that he 
should take the risk was inconceivable. He liked very much 
to be dressed in his little fine white ruffled cambric shirt and 
linen trousers, which he always kept beautifully clean, and 
his cap with the shining patent-leather peak; and thus 
costumed to sit on the front seat of the carriage when Mrs. 
Ducey went out driving. He did not want to drive himself, 
he was a little afraid when the horses shied or pranced; but 
he took undisguised pleasure in instructing Nathan in the 
art and ordering him about in his mother’s presence; he 
never attempted it elsewhere. It was a long while before he 
could ride his pony without an evident tremor; but the little 
animal being well-broken and submissive, Georgie finally 
overcame his fears, and in time learned to manage it with 
some degree of skill. He used to canter back and forth be¬ 
fore his mother and as large an audience as could be gathered 
on the front porch, sitting up very straight, with his cap 
cocked ever so slightly over one eye, and his whip and elbows 
in a rakish, jaunty, dare-devil attitude, which the ladies 
greatly admired. “Isn’t it wonderful how Georgie rides?” 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


89 


Mrs. Ducey would remark to them; “it’s perfectly natural 
to him — he just picked it right up. He doesn’t know what 
fear is. I think I never saw so perfect a seat on a horse, did 
you? And you ought to see how he takes care of his 'horse/ 
as he calls it. Feeds it and grooms it himself, and beds it 
down and washes its back — simply wonderful for a young 
boy. They aren’t generally so patient and kind to animals, 
you know.” Which last was entirely true and a trait of the 
boy’s character as out of the ordinary as some of his other 
traits. 

Mrs. Ducey, once having acquiesced in the hunting plan, 
became more enthusiastic than the boy himself. She sat 
up till all hours of the night working over a little shooting- 
jacket for him; there was a tremendous outlay for boots, 
game-bags, ammunition — one would have thought that 
Georgie, who had never fired a gun in his life, nor seen a live 
quail, and who knew no more about the backwoods than he 
did about logarithms, was going to slay his thousands, as, 
I dare say, his proud and devoted mother imagined he would. 
She made the lad’s father buy him a gun, notwithstanding 
the fact that one quite good enough for the purpose could 
have been borrowed in fifty houses of the town, for almost 
everybody owned some sort of firearms in those days. It 
was a beautiful double-barrelled English fowling-piece, a 
Manton, that Mr. Ducey bought, and Nat eyed it longingly 
when it came home in the handsome leather case provided 
for it. Georgie enjoyed flourishing the weapon in and out 
of this case and marching with it in a martial pose on his 
shoulder much more than he did the practical details of its 
handling. He looked on indifferently when Nathan showed 
him how to clean and load it, and when the latter proposed 
to set up a target in an open field near Willson’s Grove and 
give him a little practice, shrank visibly. Nat himself 
entertained no high-flown expectations of the delights of this 
trip. “If he don’t shoot me or the dog or somebody’s cow, 
we’ll be lucky,” he thought with humorous resignation; 
and exerted himself to prevent Mrs. Ducey from buying a 
thoroughbred pointer which she ardently desired to do 
as soon as she heard that a dog was more or less necessary. 
“Why, I know a young fellow that’s got a yearling setter-pup 
that he’d be glad to have me take out and break for him ; 


90 


NATHAN BURKE 


Mrs. Ducey,” argued Nathan; “don’t you think it’s better 
to let Georgie go out this once and see how he likes it, and if 
he does like it, time enough to buy a dog then.” She finally 
yielded, not to Nat’s persuasions — indeed, no! — but upon 
finding that Georgie also did not warm to the project for 
some reason. He eagerly assented to everything Nathan 
said, followed him about, and was laboriously attentive to 
him these days. 

“Ain’t you going to take any gun?” he asked, observing 
Nat’s exceedingly simple preparations; “you can’t use mine, 
you know. That is, I’ll let you have it once in a while, but 
you must mind and be careful with it. You ought to take 
your own gun — why don’t you ?” 

“It’s no good to shoot quail with,” Nathan explained to 
him. “I’ll borrow one of Jake Darnell’s, I guess — he’s 
got two or three. No use lugging mine fifteen miles out in 
the country; there aren’t any more deer around there to 
speak of. It’s been clean hunted out.” 

“What’s the matter with your gun that you can’t shoot 
quail with it?” demanded Georgie, suspiciously. “I ain’t 
going to let you have mine, anyhow. Mine cost two hundred 
and twenty-five dollars. How much did yours cost ? ” 

“Nothing, I guess. It’s a musket. Belonged to my 
father. He got it off a British soldier up North — at the 
fight at Fort Meigs. Then he had the barrel rifled out. 
It’s a pretty fair gun,” said Nat, repeating what Darnell 
had told him, for he could not remember his father. He 
glanced out at the misty November sky, thinking how well 
the scent must lie this weather. The prospect of a day in 
the open, the river, the wet leaves underfoot, the corn- 
shocks all arow, the sudden whirr and uprush of the birds, 
was beginning to exhilarate him, spite of his native sober¬ 
ness, and the drawback of Georgie’s company. They started 
out together one foggy morning not long afterwards, Mrs. 
Ducey pursuing the spring-wagon to the road with injunc¬ 
tions not to let Georgie go out in the midday sun which 
was never good for him, not to let him walk in the damp 
woods under the trees (“You can shoot just as well from the 
road, you know, Nathan.”), not to allow him to go near any 
poison-ivy, or climb any fences, or get burrs in his clothes, 
or wet his feet. Nat bore these responsibilities cheerfully 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


91 


enough; as it happened he had other and more important 
matters on his mind. 

“You’ve got to be quick, but you musn’t get into a hurry,” 
he counselled the excited boy. “You’re not holding your 
gun right — let me show you — see, this way. And set it 
down — set it down when you go to get out of the wagon 
or into it or to get over a wall or anything — you know, the 
trigger might catch in something. Look out — that’s not 
a quail up there, Georgie; they don’t roost high, you know; 
that’s nothing but a flicker, let it alone, they aren’t any 
good to eat. Well, if you will —” he stood aside resignedly, 
while Georgie drew a bead on the flicker, missed it by a 
generous distance, and staggered back with the recoil of the 
gun. He was not at all strong. 

“You hadn’t any business to talk to me while I was aim¬ 
ing,” he said angrily, turning on his companion. “I don’t 
believe you know anything about hunting — the way to 
hunt is to keep quiet — that’s the way to hunt. You just 
keep still the next time. It’s all your fault — I’d have had 
him if you hadn’t been making such a noise. He flew away 
just as I shot — you scared him away. And then talking 
that way you kept me from aiming. What’s the dog run¬ 
ning ’round and whining that way for?” 

“He’s looking for the bird; he don’t know why, but he 
somehow expects something to fall — they all do that way. 
He’s just a young dog, you know, but that’s his nature; he 
can’t help it. I’m afraid you can’t make him keep quiet,” 
said Nat, trying not to smile, not altogether successfully, 
for George eyed him with resentment. 

“Here, load the gun,” he commanded, thrusting it tow¬ 
ards the others and then shrank back in obvious fright. 
“What are you looking that way for? I haven’t done 
anything.” Nathan had been on the point of telling the 
young gentleman to attend to his gun himself; but be¬ 
thinking him that it would be a pity for their several careers 
to be cut short by the explosion or other misbehavior of 
the weapon, he gravely took and loaded it, returning it to 
its owner with further advice. 

“You’ll have to allow for the barrel jerking up on you a 
little when you fire,” he said, feeling an inexplicable rush of 


92 


NATHAN BURKE 


pity for the other’s trembling ha^ds, his weak body, his 
hysterical impatience; “and when you’re sighting on just 
one bird, you know — because they don’t always get up in 
a covey — when you’re sighting on just one bird — ” went 
on Nathan, trying to explain the unexplainable — “remem¬ 
ber you must kind of drop the shot a little — j ust a little 
ahead of him, because he’ll be there by the time you’ve fired, 
see ?” 

Like most amateur teachers, he wanted to teach too much 
at one lesson, with the usual result that he taught nothing 
at all. Nathan could not remember the time when he had 
not known how to handle a gun; he was confused himself 
at finding how difficult it was to impart what seemed to him 
so essentially simple a thing; and his well-meant efforts 
served only to fret and perplex his poor little pupil. The 
first time the birds got up with the furious loud battling of 
wings which accompanies their rise, Georgie, although the 
dog had pointed in a tense silence with quivering muscles 
for fully half a minute, was so startled that he stood motion¬ 
less, staring; and Nat, unable to bear the spectacle of so good 
a chance going to waste, snatched the gun from him, and 
succeeded in winging one of the quail — a proceeding which 
George very properly resented and for which Nathan apol¬ 
ogized with contrition. “I — I just couldn’t help it — 
they were all getting away,” he explained humbly; “I won’t 
do that again, George. Here, let me load again for you. 
I’ll give it back to you, I will — honor bright. I’ll borrow 
Jake’s gun for myself when we get to the cabin.” Georgie 
forgave him; the boy was always ready enough to makemp 
and be friends; there was no trace of vindictiveness in his 
disposition. He was filled with delight at the way the young 
setter plunged among the bushes and brought out the bird, 
under Nathan’s instructions, panting and grinning and wag¬ 
ging his plumed tail, a happy dog. Yet he withdrew in a 
kind of horrified distaste from the warm bleeding body of the 
quail. “It smells — I — I don’t like to touch it — I won’t 
touch it,” he gasped, quite pale and shuddering; and Nathan, 
who suffered no humane scruples at shooting a quail, dropped 
it into the bag, wondering. 

They fell in with Darnell towards noon, a mile or so from 
his home, and walked on together, Georgie sidling close to 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


93 


NaC silent for once and oddly overawed by the backwoods¬ 
man’s appearance. Jake was sober, to Burke’s relief; 
he came upon them from behind, noiseless as an Indian, with 
his ragged old pouch stuffed with game already. “ ’Bout 
four dozen, I reckon,” he said in answer to Nat’s question; 
“thick as hair on a dog’s back, ain’t they? Ye can’t hardly 
fire at one without hittin’ twenty. All ye got to do is jest 
pint yer gun an’ let her go — c’ld do it with yer eyes shet, 
’most. Still, I dunno —game ain’t as plenty as it useter 
be. I wouldn’t wonder if I’d hev’ to be movin’ on one o’ 
these days. It’s gittin’ too crowded up ’roun’ here.” As 
long as Nathan knew Darnell this had always been his plaint; 
he had been moving on for fifteen years, and the young 
man listened with a smile. “They say it’s kinder more 
roomy-like in th’ Illinois,” said Jake. “I might try it out 
there, ’twan’t fer Nance. #t’s hard to move th’ wimmen- 
folks, ye know. Hey? Why, sartain ye kin hev’ it, sartain. 
Yeh kin take this one, er come on up to th’ cabin an’ git that 
there little duck-gun ye useter be so fond of, Nat. That’s 
a first-rate gun th’ little feller’s got, ain’t it? Criminy, 
that there’s a good gun! Is that Ducey’s boy?” 

He bent upon Georgie a glance so abrupt and keen the 
boy trembled before it. In fact, old Jake Darnell in his 
tawney butternut-dyed clothes, his moccasins, and coonskin 
cap, with his leathery face wrinkled like a boot-leg, and his 
quick eyes bright and unwinking as a snake’s, however 
homely and natural he seemed to Nathan, must have been a 
fearsome figure to the little town-bred child. I do not know 
how old Jake was at this time; he looked anywhere between 
fifty and a hundred. He once said, in speaking of Boone, 
that he had been “jest a young feller startin’ out,” when he 
first met that famous scout and pathfinder. “Yer father 
was younger’n me, Nat,” he said; “but we was together a 
g$>od deal. I knowed yer maw’s folks, too. I met up with 
yer gran’paw Granger ’long back when he first come to this 
country; I disremember th’ year, but ’twas before th’ war. 
Yer gran’paw come fer ter take up some land, but I heern 
afterwards he died ’fore he ever got ter do it — died uv th’ 
fever over ter Muskingum County somewheres. 01’ woman 
Darce she kin remember him too; I reckon she come here 
’bout th’ same time. Queer how folks kinder float erroun’ 


94 


NATHAN BURKE 


an’ errourT an’ bimeby they jest float up inter a corner like 
a chip in th’ riffle an’ stay thar, an’ don’t never float any 
more. When I come back from th’ war, I got married after 
er while, an’ yer paw he got married, an’ that nachelly sepa¬ 
rates folks — men, ye know. I didn’t see him agin till both 
our wives was dead. I tuk up some land an’ settled here th’ 
year o’ th’ big squirrel-hunt. You was borned that year, 
wan’t ye? First uv th’ year, seems like I kin remember. 
I’d a tuk keer uv ye, an’ glad to, Nat, when John died, hadn’t 
’a’ been fer ’Liph steppin’ in first.” “You did take care of 
me,” Nathan said. He knew this was no idle talk; the older 
man was fond of him perhaps as much for the sake of remem¬ 
bered days and that ancient companionship with his father 
as for Nat’s own. Nobody would have guessed from their 
greeting that any warm friendship existed between them, but 
neither was of a demonstrative nature. The last time he had 
seen Darnell, Nathan had found him wofully drunk in the 
gutter of a Scioto street slum and brought him by stealth 
to his room and got him sobered after a few hours, blessing 
his stars the while that Jake’s sprees never took a noisy or 
violent turn. Mrs. Ducey would have had just cause for 
complaint had she known of it, yet I hardly see how Nat 
could have let his poor old companion lie in the open road. 
He wondered at the time why Nance was not at hand to 
keep her father straight, as had been her intention. 

The girl’s face brightened unaffectedly when she saw the 
visitor; she ran out to meet them, her red calico gown flap¬ 
ping, her black hair striving with the wind. “Lord, Nat, 
but I’m glad to see ye — it’s a good while — you’ve growed, 
ain’t you ? You look a sight older. Is that Mrs. Ducey’s 
little boy? How’s yer ma, sonny?” she asked eagerly. 

“You haven’t been in town once, Nance,” said Nathan, 
gazing in open admiration. “Why not? I thought you 
said you were going to?” e 

“Why, it jest happened that way. I — I haven’t got 
anything fitten to wear ’n’ that’s th’ truth,” she said, giving 
this feminine reason with a half-laugh as she glanced down, 
with no great concern, however, at her not very voluminous 
skirts. “I ’low people would think ’twas a Injun if they 
saw me cornin’, ” she stated cheerfully. 

“Pretty good-looking Indian, Nance,” Nat told her 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


95 


honestly. She colored, eying him with a little resent¬ 
ment. 

“Aw, quit, Nat Burke, you want to be smart, I guess — 
gittin’ citified, ain’t ye? Say, I got somethin’ fer yer ma, 
•little boy. What’s yer name ? Georgie ? Speak up, don’t 
be so skeered. I was layin’ off to give it to her myself, but 
mebbe you’d better take it. Wait a minute.” She dashed 
into the house, and Nathan looked after her in wonder ; 
yet it is likely the two years had wrought less change in 
Nance than in himself. Thus had she always looked and 
acted, so free, so brilliant, and so wild. He told himself that 
he had forgot how pretty Nance was; but it seemed as if 
she and the bland goddesses of Mrs. Ducey’s front porch 
could hardly be creatures of the same planet. Nance 
bloomed in her wilderness with a savage integrity of beauty; 
she was aloof as a Diana, no more moving the senses than a 
shaft of flame, bright and leaping. 

“I don’t let her go to town, Nat,” said Darnell, meeting 
the other’s eye. A sudden extraordinary sort of ferocity 
appeared in his expression; he struck the butt of his gun 
heavily on the ground. “I ain’t goin’ ter let her go in town, 
no matter what you say,” he repeated vehemently as if 
Nathan had contradicted him. “ She — she ain’t got no 
mother, ’n’ Lord knows that’s hard enough on a girl, ’n’ 
I ain’t much of a father — oh, I know that! I won’t let 
her go nor I won’t take her neither. She — she’s too pretty, 
an’ she ain’t got nobody to look after her like she’d orter 
be looked after, ’cep’n me — an’ what do I ’mount to ? ’F 
anything was to happen to me, I always ’lowed you’d kinder 
take keer of Nance, Nathan — not that you’ve any call to, 
but—” 

“Why, of course I would, but there isn’t anything going 
to happen to you,” Nathan answered him, surprised at this 
emotional outburst; and Nance came radiantly back, 
bearing a large bundle. 

“It’s fur — squirrels’ pelts, fer a muff an’ a — a — one 
of them things ladies wear ’roun’ their necks,” she said, 
depositing it in Georgie’s unwilling hands; “I dressed ’em 
myself. They’re prime skins — ain’t they, Papa? Jest feel 
of ’em, Nat, jest prod yer finger down in that fur — ain’t 
that thick an’ silky, though?” 


96 


NATHAN BURKE 


“She was plumb sot on it,” said her father, indulgently; 
“durned if I didn't shoot thirty squirrel fer one that she'd 
pick out.” 

“Yer ma'll look pretty in 'em, won't she?” said Nance to 
the boy; “you've got a pretty ma, ain't you? Pretty as a- 
picture. They ain't nothin' too good fer her, I guess.” 

“Ma's got elegant things, I don't believe she’ll care about 
these,” said Georgie, handlingpelts disdainfully; “my 
mother's furs cost a lot. I guests you've never seen anything 
nice, have you?” 

Georgie pursued the chase with a luck so indifferent that 
perhaps it was not surprising he should tire before long, and 
his enthusiasm die. Perseverance, which seems to vary with 
the individual all the way from an interested industry to 
resolute and purely selfish ambition was not one of Georgie's 
qualities in any of its forms. Nathan knew that; but what 
he could not understand and found difficult to support was 
the perversity of the boy's idleness. He loitered on the way, 
he threw stones at the most promising coverts, he called, 
he whistled, he let off his gun at nothing, apparently from 
a simple enjoyment of noise, to the distraction of the setter 
who was a serious animal intent on the affairs of sport. 
Nathan, who, supplied with Darnell's gun, was having a day 
of sober enjoyment among the birds, felt himself for once 
utterly at a loss in his irritation and helplessness. Georgie 
was an unspeakable annoyance, but he did not dare to leave 
him alone; and after the first failures it was impossible to 
arouse the boy to further attempts. He wanted to climb 
trees, to collect nuts, to wade in the Scioto, to do anything 
on earth but shoot quail. And it was only when Nat an¬ 
nounced that the time and spot were reached for camping 
that Georgie displayed any interest in his movements. 
Then, to Burke’s unbounded astonishment, George threw 
himself into the housewifely duties of making a fire and 
getting the noonday meal with an unbelievable zest and 
handiness. He gathered sticks and dry leaves, fetched water, 
unpacked their cups and platters, watched over the roasting 
of their potatoes in the hot ashes, the boiling of their coffee, 
amiable, tireless, ready, neat, helpful! “Beats me!” said 
Nat to himself, lost in wonder; and it occurred to him for 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


97 


the first time to speculate as to what sort of man George 
Ducey would grow up to be. He was approaching fifteen 
already and was to be sent to Miami University next year. 
What would Nat Burke have given for such a chance ? 

He drew a short sigh as he fell to planning out his own 
future in view of certain impending changes. No college 
course figured therein; Nat, in the wisdom and gravity of 
his eighteen-year judgment, considered himself too old now 
to profit by the study of the classics and the higher branches 
of learning. I believe, in reality, the scholastic career and 
aims had no attractions for him; what he dimly sought was 
a life of larger and more vigorous action. He looked around 
him at the woodland landscape and marvelled in his soul that 
he had ever been able to endure its serene, dispassionate, 
contented calm. It was not that life was so easy there; 
nowhere in the world do we get something for nothing, and 
a man must do his best and work his hardest for any kind of 
prize, be it at husbandry or what you will. But amongst 
these hard-faring settlers it would seem as if the end of all 
achievement were merely to make a living; and that of itself, 
Nathan knew in his heart, would never appease him now. 
He remembered that ridiculous old dam of Pascoe’s with a 
grin; the thing was so emblematic of the pioneer spirit, 
rough-and-ready, conquering and careless. The dam served 

— what more would you have? Indeed he could hardly 
answer that question to his own satisfaction; throughout 
the day the young man had been conscious of some indefin¬ 
able change in himself, since all else was the same. He 1 
thought with a strange pang of regret that Mrs. Williams 
had been right; he could never come back here now. He 
had been back only once in all this while. The familiar air 
was good; the sound of the river was good; the fields of stub¬ 
ble, the autumn woods, all as he had pictured them; the place 
had been home to him, but, with another pang, he realized 
that it would never be so again. He had left there with no 
higher aim than to become a shining light among hired men 

— what were his ambitions now ? The young fellow blushed 
and laughed at his own exalted dreams, forgetting to answer 
the boy at his side as they drove along. 

They stopped at the Williams cabin towards mid-after¬ 
noon, having by this time, partly on foot, partly in the spring- 

H 


98 


NATHAN BURKE 


wagon, fetched a compass about all the fields and deaden- 
ings where Nat had been used to hunt in the old days — the 
days which seemed so old, yet were not such a great while 
behind him after all. It went to his heart to find himself 
received almost as a stranger. Mrs. Williams wiped her 
hands on her dingy gown before shaking his — those knotty 
hands of hers, if the truth were told, had administered more 
than one much-needed correction to Nat Burke when he 
was about the age of little Johnny or Abe over there; he 
thought this formality sat ill on them now. The younger 
children came and looked at him and at Georgie, — who was 
highly gratified at this tribute and assumed a wonderfully 
important and dignified air, — shy and silent, holding to 
their mother’s skirts. There was a new baby. The only 
natural figure in the company was that of old woman Darce, 
still smoking her everlasting pipe like an animated mummy 
by the hearth, whence she appeared never to have moved 
since Nathan’s departure, not at all concerned in his comings 
or goings and having to have everything screamed at her 
twice or thrice before she could catch the meaning. 

“It’s Nathan, Maw, Nathan Burke’s come back,” Mrs. 
Williams shouted in her ear. 

“Huh ? Nat’s come back ? Did he git th’ grist ?” asked 
the old woman; and Nat had to laugh, recalling the times 
when perched on old Baldy’s back, a position somewhat 
comparable to sitting on a chain of door-knobs, with the sack 
of corn balanced before him, he had jogged to mill at Frank- 
linton, ten miles there and back. 

“She don’t hardly take notice of anythin’ nowadays, Nat ; 
I reckon she’s fergot you been away,” said Mrs. Williams, 
apologetically. 

“No, I ain’t fergot it, ’n’ ye don’t need to holler so, Lindy ; 
I kin hear ye,” said her mother, testily, with the inconvenient 
alertness of deaf old age. But she added the next moment: 
“Ef he’s brung th’ grist, you tell him to come here, ’n’ I’ve got 
a piece o’ slippery-ellum bark fer him. He’s a good, stiddy 
boy, Nat is.” 

Nathan went up to her to receive this reward of merit in 
amused tolerance, and the old woman removed her pipe, 
studying him with her dim old eyes wherein one might dis¬ 
cern a kind of flickering interest, although her mask-like face 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


99 


showed no change of expression, perhaps was incapable of 
any. 

“Ye’re growhT,” she commented; “here, coopee down 
so’s I kin git a look at yeh. I wanter see ef yeh favor yer 
maw er paw.” And, as the young man obediently squatted 
down at her knees, she thrust forward her face and long, 
skinny neck into a not too agreeable proximity, taking 
census of his features. Mrs. Williams looked on impa¬ 
tiently, the children giggled together, George idled about 
the room, with critical glances. 

“Huh, Granger cl’ar through,” announced Mrs. Darce, 
at length, seeming to take considerable satisfaction in this 
conclusion; Nathan was rising when she arrested him with 
another question: “What color’s yer hair, Nat? I cain’t 
see it — this light’s dretful pore. Nathan Granger, his hair 
was jest turnin’ white, but it hed been light. Ye’re light- 
complected, ain’t yeh ?” 

“Kind of middling, I guess,” shouted Burke, grinning 
around at Mrs. Williams. 

“You’d be light enough, ef ’twasn’t fer bein’ tanned up so,” 
remarked the latter. “Yes, Maw, he’s kinder light,” she 
screamed, and to Burke in an aside: “Land! Ain’t it funny 
th’ notions ol’ people gits ? Who d’ye s’pose Nathan Granger 
was ? I never heern o’ him before. Was that there Granger 
man kin to Nat, Maw?” she screamed again. 

“Hey?” * 

“Who was Nathan Granger?” bellowed Burke, beginning 
to be interested in his family-tree. “Was he one of my 
mother’s people?” 

“Hey? Yes. Oh, my lordy, yes. It’s him yer named 
fer — yer maw wanted it thet way. She said so before she 
died, pore little thing. He was her paw. Kinder funny how 
ye favor him, Nab; he warn’t over ’n’ above good-lookin’, 
jes’ so-so. Ain’t I ever toP yeh ’bout him? I knowed him 
right well. He was a Britisher, ye know. Come from 
Canady, time o’ th’ Revolution. I met up with him ’long 
back when we first come here. 1 That was before I was mar¬ 
ried ter Lindy’s paw, Ben Darce; ’twas when my first man 
was alive — before th’ Injuns got him. Ain’t I ever tol’ 
you ’bout that f” 

1 Probably about 1792. — General Burke’s Note. 


100 


NATHAN BURKE 


“No, you never told me. I’d like to hear about Gran— 
Nathan was beginning, but Mrs. Williams interrupted him 
with a warning gesture. 

“Fer th’ land’s sake, Nat, don’t git her started on them 
ol’ times,” she whispered energetically; “it’ll wear ye plumb 
out, ’n’ ’sides that it gits th’ pore ol’ woman all flustered 
up ’n’ excited-like, ’n’ I dunno ez it’s right ter let her talk 
’bout ’em. Yeh know her first husband was kilt by th’ 
Injuns over ter Wheeling airly days — they was all shet up 
in th’ blockhouse, ’cep’n him. He couldn’t git in somehow, 
’n’ she saw them red devils do it. I’ve knowed her git ter 
cryin’ ’n’ screamin’ like she was crazy tellin’ ’bout it. Don’t 
you riccollect ? ” 

Nat did remember, and was quick enough to direct the 
talk elsewhere — though, to be sure, old woman Darce ap¬ 
peared already to have forgot his presence, and sat staring 
and smoking and working her jaws in her corner as usual. 
He could ask Darnell some time about this Britisher Nathan 
Granger, he thought; and speedily forgot the whole oc¬ 
currence, listening to the news of the country-side, and 
preparing to startle Mrs. Williams with some news of his 
own. “Did ye hear ’bout Pascoe, Nat? He’s going ter 
hev’ er law-suit. I don’t know’s I’ve got th’ straight of it, 
but seems they was a piece of land Pascoe was going to sell 
fer a man up to Delaware — man by th’ name of Marshall. 
’Twas that piece of river-bottom next to Pinney’s — you 
know — ’n’ Pascoe he ’lowed he could talk Pinney inter 
buyin’ it, ’n’ then Pascoe’d git a — a c’mmission, I b’lieve 
they call it. But he didn’t — Pinney acted so kinder offish. 
Pascoe said he jest give him up after a while, ’n’ tried some 
other folks livin’ over to Worthin’ton. ’N’ then Marshall 
he died here last April ’n’ th’ first thing you know —” 

I am afraid Mr. Burke hardly heard the tale of Pascoe’s 
troubles, though he tried to listen and chided himself in¬ 
wardly for his indifference. The young man’s head was full 
of his own affairs; and he seized the first pause in Mrs. 
Williams’s talk to announce with appropriate importance: — 

“I’m going to make a change — perhaps I’d better tell 
you now before I forget it ”— Forget it! Oh, Nathan! — 
“After the first of the year I won’t be with Duceys any more 
— choring, you know.” 


THE CHRONICLE OF SMALL BEER 


101 


“ Won’t ? Why ? Have they turned you off ? You don’t 
say! Whatfer? What you been doin’?” 

“No, they haven’t turned me off,” said Nat, with some 
warmth. “But I’m going down to clerk at the store. One 
of their boys is leaving them, and old Mr. Marsh wants me 
to try it. He stopped me and talked to me about it the 
other day. He thinks I’d do all right — I know what some 
of the work is, being down there so much to get things. I 
know I can do it.” 

“Clerk, hey ?” echoed Mrs. Williams, abstractedly.' “You, 
Johnny, don’t you go to foolin’ with that there powder ’n’ 
shot — make him quit it, Nathan. Clerkin’ fer Mr. Marsh, 
did you say ? I thought somehow ’twas Ducey’s store. As 
I was tellin’ ye, Pascoe he—” 

Georgie and his tutor did not reach home until late that 
evening, driving along the unkempt roads under the solemn 
radiance of the Hunters’ Moon, and Mrs. Ducey was much 
alarmed to see her boy asleep in the bottom of the wagon, 
covered with Nat’s coat, and his head pillowed upon the roll 
of squirrels’ pelts. She took his companion sharply to task 
for George’s condition. 

“Georgie was exhausted — perfectly exhausted,” she 
declaimed afterwards; “it was very careless of you, NatJ^n, 
to let him wear himself out that way; you ought to have 
taken better care of him, you know he’s not strong. He’ll 
have to stay in bed for a day or two. I don’t care if he does 
lose the time from school, he’s as white as a sheet this morn¬ 
ing. Sallie, take that custard and quince jelly and that 
piece of chocolate cake up to Mr. George, and I’ll have you 
make him a little oyster stew after a while.” 

When her fears were quieted down enough for her to notice 
Nance’s tribute, Mrs. Ducey was divided between wonder and 
perplexity — as was, perhaps, natural. Nat overheard her 
in council with the family: “Well, the furs are really very 
fine, if they are nothing but squirrel, as fine as I ever saw, 
but did you ever f What do you suppose possessed the girl ? 
I don’t believe I ever saw her in my life. William says I 
have at the store, but those country-women look exactly 
alike, all of them; I’m sure I wouldn’t know her. I don’t 
know what to do — don’t you suppose I’d better send her 


102 


NATHAN BURKE 


something? Oh, I know, I'll give her that green velvet 
dress, I can’t wear it any more — you know that moss- 
green velvet with the gilt buttons. It’s perfectly good still, 
except where I spilled the coffee over it, and just a little 
worn around the bottom, and she’ll never notice things like 
that. She’ll think it was that way from the beginning. 
I guess that’s what I’d better do. Nathan could take it out 
to her some time when he has a day off.” 

Nathan scarcely knew why he shrunk at the plan; he 
could not tell any more than Mrs. Ducey what had pos¬ 
sessed Nance; he could not have explained in words Mrs. 
Anne could understand that it had seemed to him there was 
a high feeling in this free and eager offering of the best Nance 
had, some spirit above bargaining or recompense. He 
hoped he would not have to carry out the green velvet dress ; 
and in fact he never did, nor did Nance ever wear it. I 
remember to have seen Mrs. Ducey in a cloak lined with the 
fur every winter for twenty years thereafter; they were fine 
furs as she said and wore — eh, how much, how much they 
did outwear and outlast! 

There were twenty odd quail in the bags, and Nathan 
was not surprised to hear within a day or two that Georgie 
had shot three-fourths of them. The information tickled 
him so that he would not have corrected it for worlds. 
“ George would have shot them all if it hadn’t been for me 
making such a noise,” he said with gravity in answer to a 
shrewd question or two from Mr. Marsh — whereat the 
latter, who allowed himself a good deal of familiarity with the 
young man, slapped him on the shoulder and burst into a 
dislocating chuckle. Old George cherished no particular 
affection for his nephew — largely, I believe, because the 
boy was named after him. It’s not an unusual prejudice; 
for I will say fairly I have yet to see the man who feels him¬ 
self complimented by his namesakes! 


CHAPTER VIII 


In which Mr. Burke makes a New Start 

Nat had been a good deal startled and pleased and flat¬ 
tered by old Marsh's offer; milking cows is an honorable 
occupation, but he liked to think that one man at least had 
observed in him the stuff for better things; it would be 
difficult to say at what time other ambitions began to take 
shape within him, but certainly he had not expected to 
remain a chore-boy all his life. Nobody knows what grandi¬ 
ose schemes and visions had possessed him; yet it is some¬ 
what to his credit that, even at that age, Nathan recognized 
that the invariable prelude to success is a deal of hard work. 
He had no notion of shirking that part of Life's bargain, 
or of winning by a trick. He accepted the proposal as 
eagerly as was natural to his rather cautious and reserved 
temper, with no distrust of his own abilities, but with a 
sober anxiety to show his worthiness. So far, he believed, 
he had not failed to satisfy his employers; he would not 
fail of satisfying Mr. Marsh now — he never thought of 
the other member of the firm. 

The truth is, Mr. William Ducey was notified of this 
arrangement in the bluntest possible manner, and with no 
pretence of consulting his convenience or preference, by 
George Marsh himself. It was not the first time something 
of the kind had taken place; the clerks came and went 
at Marsh's pleasure; lived, moved, and had their being under 
his eye. When Nathan had finished out his appointed days 
in the Ducey household, he was dismissed from the one 
position and welcomed into the other by William with as 
much of a flourish as if the exchange had not been, so far as 
Ducey himself was concerned, in a sense, compulsory. “I 
hope, Burke, you will acquit yourself as well in a fiduciary 
position as you have in—er — ah — ” said William, rather 
at a loss for the proper term to apply to Nat's late cares, 

103 


104 


NATHAN BURKE 


and waving his hand toward the barnyard in delicate illus¬ 
tration; and Nathan thanked him, grinning faintly. If 
he had no especial admiration for Ducey, Nat at least knew 
him to be an honest and good-hearted man, who sincerely 
wished his ex-chore-boy well, perhaps even had some vague 
understanding of the latter’s ambitions and applauded them. 
Not so Mrs. Ducey; if William was disposed to “crinkle 
down” in obedience to her uncle’s dictum, Anne was not. 
She was too obstinate and high-spirited to be afraid of 
George Marsh or anybody; and did not hesitate to inform 
him, greatly to the old gentleman’s amusement, that the 
transfer was the most tyrannical thing she had ever heard of, 
the most foolish, short-sighted, and inconsiderate. Nathan 
was astonished to find himself numbered with those bless¬ 
ings which brighten as they take their flight! He was a 
fine chore-boy, the best chore-boy they had ever had, so 
faithful, so steady, so capable! It was a shame to stick 
him in a counting-room and try to make a clerk of him — 
well, we should see! In six months he would be glad to come 
back and go to making garden and driving the carriage 
again. Think what a good home and good wholesome food 
he had here; often and often she had taken a nice roast 
chicken wing or neck that had hardly been touched and 
sent it out to him from her own table — eh? No, he never 
seemed to eat it, to be sure; he didn’t appreciate a little 
kindness like that the way a colored servant would ; you know 
you couldn’t expect it, the way he had been brought up out 
in the back woods. 

“Well, I don’t know,” remarked old George, thought¬ 
fully; “to my notion a chore-boy’s a chore-boy, and a 
garbage-barrel’s a garbage-barrel, and, by damn, I don’t 
believe in mixing ’em up !” 

“I don’t think it’s necessary for you to use that sort of 
language before me, Uncle George, and it certainly isn’t 
nice,” said Mrs. Ducey, with dignity. “I suppose you think 
swearing is one of the things it will be good for Nathan to 
learn. You will only be putting him in the way of tempta¬ 
tion, giving him twice as much wages for work he won’t 
be able to do; and then when he has to come down to choring 
again, he will be absolutely spoiled for it, and will be sure 
to go to the dogs right away. I’m surprised at Nathan — 


MR. BURKE MAKES A NEW START 105 


I thought he’d have more gratitude, after all we’ve done for 
him —giving him all Will’s old clothes ana everything — 
and after all I’ve done myself. I’ve gone out and mixed 
a pitcher of hot flaxseed tea for him when he was sick with 
a cold — yes, and got medicine for him — Jayne’s Vermi¬ 
fuge —” 

“What!” yelled old George; “Jayne’s ivhatf” 

“Vermifuge — for worms, you know — all young boys 
need it. He wouldn’t take it, though I did my best to make 
him. He’s a very stubborn disposition — really, Uncle 
George, when you laugh that way, I’m sometimes afraid 
you’ll have a stroke.” 

Nat could not help overhearing these jeremiads; there 
never was any privacy for anybody, not excepting herself, 
where Mrs. Ducey was; she argued, scolded, lamented 
coram publico, not being able to conceive of any need for 
reticence especially where servants were concerned, and 
being in all things absolutely frank, literal, and direct. She 
said no more than was true of her kindnesses, which were as 
headlong and ill-judged as her unkindnesses, and moved 
Nathan equally with a species of helpless and tender amuse¬ 
ment. 

Of the other members of the family, Georgie took very 
little interest in the hired man’s affairs; but Frances, upon 
hearing of the change, and beholding Nat’s few belongings 
depart in a box and carpet-bag to the lodgings he had found 
in an exceedingly modest neighborhood at the other end of 
town, exhibited an emotion that alarmed and, to be truthful, 
annoyed this hero considerably. The little thing — Francie 
was about eleven at this time, but very short, dumpy, and 
homely — clung to him, weeping aloud. She unblushingly 
wound her arms around his neck and burrowed her head into 
his fine new black silk stock with the buckle at the back 
to which Nat had treated himself in honor of his emancipa¬ 
tion; she shed bitter tears all over his clean collar and shirt- 
front. Nathan was going away and she refused to be 
comforted; you would have thought he was bound for the 
other side of the globe by all the tragic to-do she made. 

“Why, gracious goodness, I’ll be right down at the store 
every day of the world, Francie,” said the young fellow, 
too soft-hearted to disengage himself forcibly, yet crimson 


106 


NATHAN BURKE 


with a wretched embarrassment before the giggling maid¬ 
servants, and fervently wishing he could think of something 
to quiet her; “there's a new hired man coming to-mor¬ 
row — he’s coming from just the same place I did, and I’ve 
showed him how to do everything —- and all about your 
swing and the playhouse and everything else,” said Nat, 
wondering privately how long Joe Williams, who was an 
honest and well-meaning, but not overclever lad, would 
stick it out with Mrs. Ducey. “He’ll be just the same as I 
am —” 

“No, he won’t — I h-hate him — I w-wish he’d go away 
— I w-want you! ” 

“Oh, now, you won’t feel that way. You’ll be all over 
that in a little,” said Nat, removing a bunch of her curls 
from his mouth, and at his wits’ end for words of comfort. 

“Look here, I’ve got something of yours — I’ve got your 
quarter, don’t you remember ? You haven’t asked me about 
that for a good while, have you ? Look, here it is.” 

Fresh wails and sobs! “I w-want you to have it! I 
want you to k-keep it!” 

“Why, no, you don’t, Francie ; that’s your money, you 
know. You don’t want it now, maybe, but you will some 
day.” 

“No, I won’t, Nathan,” said the child, lifting her poor 
little wet face to his. “I want you to keep it forevernever. 
Cross your heart and say you’ll keep it.” 

And this sentimental rite being performed, Mrs. Ducey 
most opportunely happened along, attracted by the doleful 
uproar, and took Francie away with a prim and shocked 
expression. “The idea, Frances, a great big girl like you, 
aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Hanging on to Nathan 
that way —” Her searching voice descended to the kitchen, 
and the maids sniggered again. Nat was glad to escape; 
he wearied of the petticoat tyranny, wearied of the narrow 
little domestic world. He whistled his tuneless whistle as 
he turned his back on the house and strode jubilantly away, 
while Francie was crying her eyes out upstairs. Before he 
had reached the store, Nathan had forgot her ; it was only 
when his fingers touched the coin in his pocket that she re¬ 
curred to his mind, and then with the emphatic hope that 
none of the other young men would hear of that ridiculous 


MR. BURKE MAKES A NEW START 107 


scene. Yet he was really fond of Francie, who was a sweet- 
tempered, patient, good child, always ready to run her fat 
little legs off waiting on her aunt, on Georgie who frequently 
availed himself of her willingness, on anybody who asked 
her; always conscientiously laboring over her scales and 
five-finger exercises, and getting her lessons every night with 
a devotion to duty which should have stirred Nat’s admira¬ 
tion. He had officiated as sexton at the funerals of sundry 
dolls, birds, puppies, and so on, and endeavored so often to 
soothe the grief of the chief mourner, even to the point of 
whittling out monuments with eulogies of the deceased and 
planting rose-bushes upon the graves, that he knew Francie’s 
faithful and affectionate disposition; her attachment to him 
was as natural as her attachment to Rover, the old collie, he 
thought, with a laugh. In this wide world there was not 
another soul who cared enough about him to weep at parting; 
and it seems to me now that Nat might have been more ap¬ 
preciative. But the young man was a young man, and his 
most absorbing thought just now was of himself and his 
career. 

It is strange to me at this present moment to recall with 
what a thrill of proud resolve Nat Burke ascended his high 
stool and squared his elbows to his first account-book in 
that grimy hole where George Marsh reigned supreme. 
For he did reign there, as Nathan would have discovered in 
less than a day even if he had not had some inkling of it 
already. The old man could not relinquish that heavy grip 
of his gear he had held all these years; he was Ducey & 
Co., as his little world of commerce more than suspected. 
William Ducey might post his own name over the door as 
big as he pleased, he might be ever so busy with his rustling 
heaps of papers, he might bustle about with his thoughtful brow, 
he might command and countermand twenty times an hour, 
he was nothing but a figurehead, and we all knew it. Every¬ 
body knew it, from the draymen rolling Ducey & Co.’s 
casks about on the sidewalks to the brokers and retail trades¬ 
men coming in for their contracts. Mr. Ducey was always 
formally consulted on any business matter, and he always 
did as he was told by old George with as good a grace as he 
could muster. Many people would not have considered his 
position a hard one; there was a handsome income from the 


108 


NATHAN BURKE 


store and William lived in excellent style. He belonged to 
the Board of Trade, made a fine figure at banquets and the 
laying of corner-stones, was an equally good hand at making 
punch and making speeches. What would Marsh have 
looked like or how would he have acquitted himself in any of 
these capacities? The idea is almost fantastically comic. 
Mrs. Ducey thought her husband the most brilliant, solid, 
able business-man and financier in the country. What did 
he think of himself, I wonder? I have seen him yawning 
secretly over those voluminous papers on his desk; Nat 
Burke could cast up a column of figures with more readiness, 
despatch, and skill — to say nothing of that ferret-eyed 
young Quills yonder on his stool, with his soiled wristbands 
turned back from his hands as they travelled nimbly up and 
down the ledger — young Quills who deferred to Mr. Marsh 
as to the Almighty, and sneered at Ducey behind his back. 
I daresay poor William knew it; he was not a dull man nor 
a lazy man; more than likely he chafed sorely at playing 
second-fiddle; more than likely he cherished his own plans 
and ideas of making money — of how business should be 
conducted. Once in his absence'a gale of summer wind blew 
some of the documents off Ducey’s desk, strewing them all 
about the floor, and Nathan, who was performing the duties 
of an entry-olerk, left his books and descended from his perch 
to gather them up. 

“What’s that in your hand? Give it here, Nat,” old 
George growled out suddenly, looking up over his glasses and 
over the top of the newspaper where he had been studying 
the New York market report; and Nathan silently laid the 
sheaf of papers before him. “Virginia Lottery, Wellsburgh, 
Class I, draws at Alexandria, Va., July 25, 1839. Scheme 
$30,000, $20,000, 25 of 1000. Tickets $10.” “Maryland 
Consolidated, Class II, draws at Baltimore, Md., Aug. 15, 
1839. Scheme $20,000—” “Kentucky Extra, Class IV, 
draws—” etc., etc. These were some of the headings; 
tickets were to be had of Ichabod Bernstein. Such ingenuous 
notices were common enough in those days; they appeared 
in all the journals. A fortune awaited the lucky investor 
of ten dollars in Wellsburgh, Class I, Kentucky Extra, and 
the rest. 

“Huh!” grunted the old man; and Nat having gone to 


MR. BURKE MAKES A NEW START 109 


his work again, Mr. Marsh presently arose and himself 
deposited the papers on their owner’s desk; nor did they 
exchange a word on the subject then or later. 

Mr. Burke, during the time of his clerkship and for some 
while thereafter, lived in a very small way indeed at a board¬ 
ing-house in an ungenteel suburb not far from the river, and 
within easy distance of the store where he liked to arrive as 
early in the morning as Mr. Marsh, such was his conception 
of his duty. He had one of the cheapest rooms of this not at 
all expensive establishment, which was kept by a little, meek, 
white-eyelashed widow called Slaney — a name which some¬ 
how accurately fits and describes her. In time Nat got to 
be a sort of “trusty” — her oldest and most stable boarder; 
she told him her whole shabby history, how she had seen 
better days, how Slaney had deserted her (for she was what 
Jim Sharpless used to call a brevet-widow, not an actual 
one); Nathan heard all about Slaney — Slaney who had fallen 
a victim to the reptilian wiles of a wicked, wicked woman, 
and not so good-looking either, whatever a man could see in 
her, the dear knows; Slaney who was the soul of honor and 
loved Mrs. Slaney dearly even if he had been led astray; 
Slaney who had decamped with the other woman, absent- 
mindedly carrying off the contents of his employer’s cash- 
drawer at the same time; Slaney whom she loved still and 
would take back to-morrow. She had a daguerreotype 
of him on a bracket in her dingy sitting-room with a bunch 
of immortelles in a pink tinted glass vase underneath it, and 
used to cry over this relic while she was confiding the story 
to Nathan. It became pretty familiar to him before he left 
the widow’s roof. “It’s a great comfort to talk to you, Mr. 
Burke; you never say a word — so sympathetic !” she would 
sigh; “and you know there ain’t many I can talk to.” In 
truth there were not; her other lodgers were a floating crew, 
some of whom, alas, did not pay her, and came home tipsy 
and broke the window-panes; and Mr. Burke knocked one 
of these gentlemen down the steps and gave him a black eye 
for calling the poor woman a hideous name. They were 
most numerous when the Legislature was in session, at which 
time the town was always very crowded and active ; or during 
the terms of court in our circuit when every tavern and 


110 


NATHAN BURKE 


lodging-house would be filled with lawyers, parties, jurors, 
witnesses, like a kind of benevolent plague of locusts. I hope 
Mrs. Slaney made her profit out of them, but it is much to 
be doubted. She was not a practical soul. 

The stir that these visitors made was felt in a general 
briskening of trade even by Ducey & Co., whom one would 
not have supposed affected by their presence in town. But 
everybody except the Mrs. Slaney’s drove a roaring business. 
The billiard-room clicked merrily all day long, for these 
overworked legal laborers must have recreation; the coffee¬ 
houses were always in full blast day and night — the coffee¬ 
houses where coffee was the last thing in the world any one 
would have got or dreamed of asking for ! High Street was 
lined throughout its length with horses and vehicles; the 
old Court-house fairly hummed with alert gentlemen loaded 
with green bags, calf-skin volumes, saddle-bags crammed 
with documents. Hordes of fledgling lawyers and law- 
students flocked about the circuit at the heels of the judges 
and the full-blown attorneys who practised in a dozen 
counties, and moved majestically in an orbit of cases coming 
up for trial. Nathan, hurrying up street from the store with 
a deposit for the bank, might run into a half-score of celeb¬ 
rities, middle-aged gentlemen with white silk hats, looking 
oddly alike with their strong features, their sonorous voices, 
their heavy laughter, like a separate and distinct race of 
men, even to the separate and distinct lawyers’ lingo in 
which they conversed, and of which the young man caught 
snatches as he passed along, with a pleased and eager curi¬ 
osity. There were giants in those days ; Nathan sometimes 
heard the young followers pointing out So-and-So from 
Chillicothe, Such-a-One from Zanesville, to one another with 
huge respect and admiration; if the great man spoke to one 
of them, the lucky lad would brag about it a whole day 
afterwards — “I was coming out of the District-Attorney’s 
room with Charlie Green — you know Charlie Green ? — 
and I just happened to say that in that quo warranto action 
against Buchanan — you know that suit ? — in my opinion 
the whole thing was nothing but a piece of spite-work and 
if I was Buchanan’s lawyer, I’d tell him flat that the law 
was against him, and just give him a hint if he’d stay away 
from court, I’d fix it for him — that’s all he’s got to do, you 


MR. BURKE MAKES A NEW START 111 


know, just stay away from court, and then when the case is 
called, I move a postponement, don’t you see, and of course 
the other side won’t hear of that, so then — and just as I got 
that far somebody tapped me on the shoulder and here it 
was Hunter — you know Hocking Hunter ? — and says he, 
with that twinkle in his eye — you know that twinkle in his 
eye? — ‘Young man, I see what you’re driving at! That, 
sir, would be pettifogging — rank pettifogging—’ just like 
that he said it, you know that way he has — he had been 
standing there, listening to me—” and so on and so on to 
the deep and envious interest of the other youths — even 
to Nathan, who took a singular delight in this sort of dis¬ 
course, of which he heard a good deal at Mrs. Slaney’s table 
and elsewhere. Everybody knew everybody; everybody 
was everybody’s friend — a fact which Nat observed 
with some wonder, having hitherto shared the naive belief 
of the layman who expects his lawyer to be at daggers 
drawn with the attorney on the opposite side. 

I have said that this legal activity brought trade to town, 
even to Ducey’s; for as court sat in the closing weeks of 
the year, besides the ordinary attendance there was always 
a great in-pouring of farmers and country tradesmen, all 
of whom got in their money about this time, coming to town 
to buy or sell or settle up accounts. But in fact the store 
was a busy place at any season, during old Marsh’s admin¬ 
istration, and we never lacked custom. He had a tremen¬ 
dous acquaintance with all these gentry, attorneys, brokers, 
pedlers, drovers, merchants, backwoodsmen, politicians, 
capitalists — who was there whom George Marsh did not 
know ? He was a man of seventy, had lived in these parts 
upwards of twenty years, and previous to that had travelled 
widely over the country and seen the manners of many men 
and their cities. It was an asset, that acquaintance. Na¬ 
than, in the intervals of his work, used to observe with a keen, 
amused, and not altogether unsatiric interest the dealings 
of Mr. Marsh with his various clients, many of whom were 
as rough customers as he proclaimed himself to be. They 
respected the old man; they knew him to be shrewd and 
close, yet on the whole kindly, and of an invincible upright¬ 
ness. They liked him for his plain virtues of a plain man. 
“That Ducey feller’s too stylish for me — give me Marsh,” 


112 


NATHAN BURKE 


Nat heard more than one of them say. Plainness was greatly 
admired in those days, and stylishness equally condemned. 
But George was innocent of any design to clothe himself in 
either the one or the other attribute ; he was as nature made 
him, with a stalwart dislike of shams; and, remarking, it 
may be, some kindred trait in Burke, liked the young man 
accordingly. 

“You know a good deal about these back-country fellows, 
I take notice, Nathan,” he said approvingly; “and you ain’t 
too fancy for ’em. That’s right 4 ; stick to that. Dress nice, 
mind your manners — ” said old George, spitting with great 
force and accuracy — “that’s natural to a young fellow. 
But strike a balance; don’t be too damn tony; but don’t.be 
too hail-fellow-well-met, either. That sounds easy, but it’s 
what some people never learn,” he added, his eye wandering 
quite by accident, I think, in the direction of his nephew- 
in-law’s desk; “of course, you can’t treat every man the 
same, in one sense. You’ve noticed, I guess, that when it 
comes to settin’ ’em up for some of these men, I’m pretty 
choose-y, as you might say. I give Ducey — Mr. Ducey, 
I mean — a hint to take some of ’em home to dinner — and 
there’s others that are a sight better pleased to go up to the 
Erin-go-Bragh with me, some of the plug-hat-fancy-vest 
kind, too. It all depends. I wouldn’t wonder if I’d have to 
get you to do some of this before long, Nat. I don’t always 
have the time, and I ain’t as young as I was. Now you’re 
young, but I guess you can keep your head; you ain’t had 
any too easy a row to hoe so far, and I guess you’ve learned 
some sense. I had when I was your age. And besides—” 
he fingered his stubbled chin for a moment, and turned his 
quid — “I reckon,” he said with a sudden sharpness of glance, 
“I reckon you’ve been through the mill, hey? I guess you 
ain’t any — what d’ye call ’em ? — any cherubim, hey, Nat ? ” 
and seeing the young fellow redden and stammer, he grinned 
companionably. “Lord love you,” he said benevolently; 
“I know you ain’t regularly hell-bent, like the women think 
because you go into a billiard-room and take a drink once in 
a while. No, nor even when you — why, you see, you’re 
safe as long as you know when to call a halt, hey?” finished 
old George, with unwonted delicacy, and abruptly changed 
the subject, having indeed been much more expansive than 


MR. BURKE MAKES A NEW START 113 


was his habit. “Who was the fellow that was in here the 
other day having such a jaw with you?” he asked; “that 
wasn’t Williams or Darnell — I know both of them.” 

“You mean Pascoe, I guess,” Nathan told him, and smiled 
at the recollection. “He belongs up there where I come 
from — I’ve known him all my life. Pascoe’s got a law¬ 
suit coming on; he wanted to tell me all about it. He just 
wanted to talk, you know; you couldn’t have stopped him 
with a pick-axe.” 

“Law’s tricky,” observed Mr. Marsh, wisely. He tilted 
his chair back, and pared off a fresh chew. “Law’s tricky. 
Most any lawyer, that ain’t an out-and-out shyster will advise 
you to keep out of a suit, and you and I will pay some atten¬ 
tion to him. But these farmers and backwoodsmen, it’s sur¬ 
prising — they’re natural-born fighters. They’ve got to 
wrestle so to make a living and keep body and soul together, 
it kind of gets in their blood. They think they’re bound to 
win if they hang on long enough — so they do hang on like 
terriers. I’ll bet there never was one of ’em yet that accepted 
a compromise. What’s Pascoe’s trouble?” Nathan ex¬ 
plained i “Some man promised him a commission, he says, 
if he’d sell some land for him. So Pascoe made an effort to 
sell it to a neighbor up there in our end of the county. And, 
I believe, he nearly did sell it — the man was sort of hang¬ 
ing on the edge, you know. Well, then along in the spring 
Marshall — that’s the owner’s name — died. News travels 
pretty slow up there, and Pascoe claims he never heard a 
word about it; and here all at once some fellow steps in and 
makes the sale to the very man Pascoe had in view, and 
Marshall’s heirs give him the commission. Naturally, 
Pascoe wants to claim his share, and that’s where the hitch 
comes.” 

Old Marsh nodded, chewing with a knit brow. “He has 
a case, I guess,” he said. “Who’s his lawyer?” 

Nathan named him. “I hope they won’t fight it through 
all the courts,” he said, for he felt a natural concern for his 
old friend. “ Pascoe hasn’t got the money for it. They’ve 
always been a foot-loose lot; never made more than a bare 
living, nor laid up a cent;” and he told Mr. Marsh about the 
dam, as being the thing most characteristic of Pascoe he 
knew. 


114 


NATHAN BURKE 


Mr. Burke has rehearsed this conversation and the whole 
incident of Pascoe’s law-suit with a meticulous accuracy, 
for it actually influenced his entire life. Poor old Pascoe 
never knew it, nor did Burke himself realize it until the 
moment when he came to set it down in black and white, 
and was startled to discover with what vividness the episode 
returned upon him. That afternoon as he was coming from 
Mrs. Slaney’s dinner towards the store, it being a bright, open 
December day, and the streets in a pleasant bustle of people, 
he fell in with Pascoe and was promptly button-holed by his 
ancient co-worker in dam building and dragged aside at the 
corner of the State-house yard, where the derricks still stood, 
and the foundations lingered unfinished for eight or ten 
years, according to my recollection. “I've been to see him, 
Nat,” Pascoe said, grasping the young man’s shoulder 
“’n’ I told him jest what you said—” 

“Good Lord, what did you do that for?” ejaculated Na 
than, in dismay. “I don’t know a thing about law ; he won’t 
thank me for sticking in my oar.” 

“I know you don’t, I know that, and so does he,” said 
Pascoe, impatiently; “but I thought I might’s well tell him 
becuz it’s wuth while fer him to know what a person that 
ain’t no lawyer, but’s got plenty of jest plain horse-sense, 
thinks, don’t ye see? So I—” 

“I suppose you told him that, too, of course?” said Nat, 
controlling his face. 

“Yes. Yes, an’ I told him what you thunk about it, ’n’ 
he says th’ pint is well taken, Nat; that’s jest what he said. 
‘Th’ pint’s well taken,’ he says. ‘Yer young friend has some 
legal turn,’ he says; ‘nevertheless, I b’lieve we kin’ beat 
’em out,’ he says. Look,” said Pascoe, excitedly clutching 
the other’s arm, “there he comes now — see those three 

— not th’ tall one — th’ other’s Gov’nor Gywnne, ain’t it 

— him that was Gov’nor, I mean. My man’s th’ little 
f-Her 1 on th’ outside, with lh’ drab-colored hat. He’s a good 
one, Nat; he b’longs to th’ Lancaster Bar, ye know; they 
ain’t no better set o’ lawyers in th’ State of Ohio — ner in 
th’ hull United States, I don’t believe !” 

1 The name of this gentleman is given; but as he left many de¬ 
scendants, who hold his memory in great and deserved honor, it has 
been thought best, although the incident can hardly be considered 


MR. BURKE MAKES A NEW START 115 


Nat thought that if the gentleman belonged to the Lan¬ 
caster Bar, it certainly was not the bar from which he had 
most recently come. He was short and stout, yet with a 
sort of heavy activity in his step, which might have been 
a little steadier, perhaps. But although his strongly marked 
face was flushed and his laughter pretty ready, he contrived 
somehow to be slightly drunk without much loss of dignity. 
There was a jolly strength about him, a relaxed and jovial 
power. Nathan knew Governor GWynne, as did every one 
else in town, by sight at least. Nat had often seen him in 
church, and two or three times at the Ducey house, where 
his family visited. And the other, a very tall man, as tall 
as Governor Gwynne, but fleshier, and so dark of complex¬ 
ion that he might almost have been taken for a negro, was a 
familiar figure on our streets, being fairly sure, it was sup¬ 
posed, of the nomination? for governor next year on the Whig 
ticket, and a most agreeable, conversational, plain-mannered, 
and popular gentleman. “He’s a leetle how-come-you-so, 
jest a leetle — it’s nothin’, they all drink more or less. I 
tell ye he’s a big one, one of th’ biggest they’ve got,” whis¬ 
pered Pascoe, with eyes of awe on his counsel. “There, 
Nat, he’s lookin’ right this way — he saw me — see him 
wave his hand!” said Pascoe, pleasantly excited by this 
signal, and not in the least shocked or put about by his man- 
of-law’s departure from the paths of temperance. Pascoe 
himself was as seasoned a drinker as I ever knew; he was a 
little, hard, knotty man who lived to an inordinate old age, 
something like ninety or a hundred, jn complete refutation 
of the theory that the use of tobacco and stimulants tends to 
shorten the life of man. 

“I guess I’d better be getting along to the store, Pascoe,” 
said Nat, observing that this trio was bearing down in their 
direction, and not feeling particularly anxious for notice; 
“let me know when your case comes on to be tried —” 

“ Don’t you want to see him ? ” said Pascoe, with something 
of the showman’s pride. “Sho, Nat, you ain’t ’fraid of ’em, 

discreditable, to omit it. And it is interesting to note that the habit 
of strong drink never did “get him, ,, as Governor Corwin is here 
reported to have prophesied. He outlived both his companions on 
this walk by a score of years, dying in 1892 at a fine old age, and kept 
the esteem and regard of his fellow-citizens to the last. — M. S. W. 


116 


NATHAN BURKE 


are ye ? Why, I’m layirT off to vote fer Corwin—” And the 
party having by this time got abreast of them, to Nathan’s 
consternation, the short man swung about, and marched 
directly for him and his companion, the two others halting 
with a good deal of smiling interest a little distance away. 

“Is zat young man, Pascal — Pass — hie — Passover?” 
inquired the lawyer; and Pascoe assenting, he lifted his high 
silk hat with prodigious gravity to the astonished Nathan, 
and replaced it over one eye. “Young man, shake han’s. 
‘Oh, wise, young zudge, how do I honor thee!’ . Gwynne, 
zish young man. Tell gem’men what you said in case of 
Pass — Pass — damn it — Pass —” 

“ You'd better pass, I think,” said the dark man, with a 
laugh; “ I’ll take the deal. Are you the Daniel, sir ? What’s 
your name?” 

“Burke — Nathan Burke,” said Nat, out of countenance, 
yet moved with inward laughter. 

“Nathan, hey?” interrupted the lawyer. He smote Nat a 
blow on the chest that almost took the breath out of him, 
whereat the other burst into a loud laugh. “‘Thou art the 
man!”’ he said, and passed an arm around the young fellow’s 
shoulders, leaning on him affectionately. “Shay,” he said 
intimately, “you told Passport he couldn’t have a contract 
with a dead person, didn’t you? Told him death ought to 
dissolve ’greement, didn’t you ? Smart boy — go up ’head!” 
he chucked Nathan under the chin. “Who told you, hey?” 

“Nobody. I just guessed at it,” said Nat, holding him up. 

“You hear zat, Gov’nor?” asked the lawyer, tenderly 
solicitous. Governor Gwynne, who was a man of formal 
appearance and accounted pretty stiff by those who knew 
him, looked at him resignedly. 

“Did you advise Mr. — ah — this gentleman’s client, as 
he has intimated, Mr.—um — Burke?” he asked with a 
chilly civility. 

“Yes, but I don’t know anything about the law — I was 
only talking,” Nat explained. “I know more about other 
things,” he added with a grin, skilfully steadying his newly 
acquired friend. 

“Zat is cut at me — most unkindest cut of all,” said the 
latter, with entire good-nature. “Oh, I know I’m drunk, but 
I ain’t so very drunk. Why, if I was very drunk, Sam 


MR. BURKE MAKES A NEW START 


117 


Gwynne wouldn’t be seen on the street with me ! Zash how 
I know. Tom would, wouldn’t you, Tom? Goo’ old Tom ! 
Are you going to vote for Tom, young man?” 

“I shan’t be voting for anybody for a year or so yet,” 
said Nathan, trying ineffectually to back away. 

“What? You don’t say so!” exclaimed the dark man, in 
surprise. “Why, you look twenty-five!” 

“Zash load off Tom’s mind — he don’t have to shake 
hands with you,” said the lawyer, cynically. 

“Oh, you go to the devil!” said Tom, half laughing, half 
annoyed; and he put out his hand. “I want to shake 
hands with you, Burke, if for nothing but to disprove that. 
You are studying law? Whose office are you in?” 

“Oh, no, I’m not — I’m clerking for Mr. Marsh — 
Ducey & Co., you know,” said Nathan, a little shyly, 
wondering within him at the politician’s smooth assumption 
of interest. 

“Ah? My advice to you, sir, would be to study law — 
nothing derogatory to Mr. Marsh’s pursuits, of course. 
Mr. Marsh is a very old and good friend of mine. But the 
law offers a great career to a young man. We should hear 
from you, sir, I make no doubt. Good-day, Mr. — er—” 
he. shook hands with Pascoe, who was quite proud, confused, 
and happy. “I should have liked to think, Mr. Burke, that 
I might depend on you at the polls,” he concluded with an 
admirable show of warmth. 

“I guess I’ll have a chance some other time, Mr. Corwin,” 
said Nat, not to be outdone. 

“Zat’s right, m’boy,” said the lawyer, with a grin so know¬ 
ing it made the young man’s face flush. And as the others 
moved on he hooked his elbow within Nathan’s confidentially. 
“You heard what old Tom said? Shay, it — hie — it 
wasn’t all gammon, you know. Study law, hey, why don’t 
you ? ” He released Nat at last and addressed him profoundly. 
“I am not merry,” said he, wagging his head. “I do beguile 
the thing I am by seeming otherwise. I could never better 
stead thee than now — Put money in thy purse; go to 
these wars — no, damn it, thash not what I mean — study 
law ! I say — hie — put money in thy purse ! Thou shalt 
see an answerable sequestration. Put money in thy purse. 
If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way 


118 


NATHAN BURKE 


than clerking ! Fill thy purse with money. Traverse 
Go ! Adieu !” He gave Nat another staggering thump on 
the back this time, burst into another thunderous laugh, 
and swaggered off down the street, his hat on one side, shout¬ 
ing after the others. 

“Criminy! I hope he don’t git spells like that often,” said 
Pascoe, staring after his legal adviser a little dubiously; 
“’peared to me that last he said wan’t good sense. He must 
’a’ been more drammy than I took him fer.” 

“It was sense — it was out of a play. I’ve read it,” said 
Nat, beginning to laugh in his turn. He went on to the 
store, passing the ex-governor and Corwin awhile later on 
one of his errands, as they stood with a knot of others. Their 
backs were towards him, and Nat was glad to go unnoticed. 
“No, he’s not drinking enough to hurt him yet,” he overheard 
the dark man say; “but it’ll get him in the end — it always 
gets ’em, you know.” And Nathan heard the rest grunt 
assent. 

Whether Burke’s next action had in reality been meditated 
a long while in some obscure corner of his mind, and it needed 
only a word like Corwin’s or his semi-drunken friend’s to 
bring the plan out into the open, as it were, for more rigid 
examination, or whether he acted on a sudden and powerful 
impulse, I can scarcely tell, although the latter would have 
been unlike him. He went into Mr. Riley’s bookstore that 
evening and asked rather diffidently for a copy of “Walker’s 
Introduction to American Law,” and carried the book 
home, and burned out his meagre fire and Mrs. Slaney’s 
candle, sitting up till an outrageously late hour, so that he 
went to bed at last shivering, in the dark. 


CHAPTER IX 


Exoritur Clamor Virum 

A deal of water has gone under the bridges since the year 
1840, when young Nat Burke saw his first presidential 
campaign. Of all the hot questions of that day, only one 
survives: the tariff — evidence, I suppose, that truth and 
error are, poets and sages to the contrary notwithstanding, 
of an equal vitality. Our State was strongly Whig, as it is 
now, — the rose by another name smells just as sweet, — and 
so most of us were protectionists, although, indeed, we did 
not do near so much talking about protection as nowadays, 
nor label our views with that name. No, the tariff, if we have 
always had it with us, was at that time a kind of sleeping dog 
which we generally let lie; what we bawled and shook our 
fists over was the criminal mismanagement, the hideous 
profligacy of the party in power, the V.B.'s, as we referred to 
them, using the initials of their leader and candidate to 
evince our indignant disapproval. They called themselves 
Democrats in infamous profanation of a title which in the old 
glorious days of the Republic stood for everything that was 
high and noble! Oh, how have we fallen from that great 
estate, my friends, when a Van Buren can etc., etc. Will 
Mr. Van Buren say — will he, in the face of proof, Deny — 
will our friends, the loco-focos dare to affirm — gentlemen, I 
pause for a reply! 

And lucky he did pause, for he was in imminent danger 
of bursting a blood-vessel! Burke, skirting the crowds at 
the corners, or dodging through them in the State-house yard, 
where the orator would be perched on a horse-block, a cart, 
a bit of masonry, or any other handy elevation, would catch 
fragments like the above hurtling through the air and a 
glimpse of a red-faced man, gesticulating over the heads and 
bellowing whole-heartedly. Nobody ever did reply, our 
friends the loco-focos (which, being another term for the 

119 


120 


NATHAN BURKE 


V.B.’s was always pronounced in a tone of mingled disgust 
and contempt, as who should say, the noxious reptiles) never 
affirmed, Mr. Van Buren, secure in the White House a thou¬ 
sand miles away, never denied, and so the speaker swept on 
unhindered to a triumphant conclusion. Everybody was 
enthusiastically advised, persuaded, adjured to save the 
country and vote for the Farmer of North Bend ! And 
as nobody had ever had the slightest intention of voting 
otherwise, we all used to go home perfectly satisfied — 
especially those patriots who made a point of getting drunk, 
or of picking their fellow-patriots’ pockets on these occa¬ 
sions. Was ever any man yet converted by a stump- 
speech? I cannot believe it. We want to hear our own 
opinions announced and confirmed, not to listen to the other 
man’s. Once in a while the orator would be a Democrat, 
fluent, trumpet-throated, challenging the opposite party to 
affirm or deny, and pausing for a reply like the rest. They 
used to collect a fair-sized audience, too, and doubtless made 
just as much of an impression upon those who came, choos¬ 
ing to be impressed, and none whatever upon the others. 
The V.B.’s had the advantage — if it was an advantage — 
of a platform, one of the first, if not the first, I think, that was 
ever formulated, wherein their political creed was set forth 
in condensed and distinct terms; they adopted it at their 
convention in Baltimore in the spring of that year, and it was 
sent about and published in all the papers afterwards, to our 
great interest and edification. The Whigs, on the other 
hand, had none, and contented themselves with a wholesale 
and pretty rabid denunciation of things as they were, and 
a promise of better. And, on the whole, I do not know but 
that a piece of hearty, thoroughgoing vituperation serves more 
with the mob than the most subtle and unanswerable argu¬ 
ment, if either one of them has any effect at all. The dema¬ 
gogue has his uses and gets from me an unwilling admiration. 
There were plenty of them on both sides; but from the be¬ 
ginning the Whigs had the best of it with us, as was natural 
with a candidate who hailed from our own State — although 
that does not always count, for four years later Tennessee 
went solid against her native Polk, as I remember, and there 
are probably other instances. But Harrison enjoyed a 
tremendous personal popularity; the old warrior, retired 


EXORITUR CLAMOR VIRUM 


121 


in his virtuous poverty, living upon his own acres, offered a 
picture singularly pleasing to the republican mind; there was 
about it a frugal and classic dignity. And with that strange 
inconsistency which men will display in the mass and yet 
individually condemn, as jealous as we were of the standing 
army, as fearful of its potential evil, the soldier-hero candi¬ 
date was the one we almost invariably elected. 

It was little enough that Mr. Burke knew of the merits of 
either political system at this time ; and little enough that 
anybody cared about his opinions. What to him was friend 
or foeman ? He was too young to cast his ballot at the black¬ 
smith's, carpenters' shops, and feed-stores, where the polling- 
booths were usually set up; he could only look on, speculate, 
wonder, and exchange his immature views with other young 
fellows in like case. He used to listen, not indeed to the 
street-corner enthusiasts,—Nat had no time for them,— 
but to the solid, middle-aged or elderly men who always 
glanced aside from business to talk over the political outlook 
when they came in to see Mr. Marsh. Trade was a little 
dull, as it often is during the Presidential campaign (which 
falls in the same year as the gubernatorial with us), so that 
everybody had leisure for discussions. The only thing that 
kept them from being more animated was the fact that almost 
all these old boys were of the same mind; they raged together 
over the same abuses, growled or shouted at one another the 
same savage condemnation of our currency system, which, 
to tell the truth, was sufficiently loose and ill-ordered and 
had occasioned them all at one time or another serious in¬ 
convenience and loss, and were very strong upon the restric¬ 
tion of the executive powers. Old George himself was a 
Whig—“But I ain't expecting the millennium if Harrison 
comes in," he remarked to Nathan; “I've seen too many 
changes of party for that. I voted for Adams in '96. This 
country's big and it's changing — changing all the time. 
What's good this year may be bad ten years from now. And 
what’s good for some States is sure to be not so good for 
some others — thet's where the hitch comes. You've got 
to get down to some bed-rock principles, and for the rest of 
it strike a balance. Now Harrison's an honest man, I guess 
he was a pretty good general — no reason why he shouldn’t 
make a good President. Most men are about as intelligent 


122 


NATHAN BURKE 


as they are honest; and you’ll find that no matter how smart 
a scoundrel is, he’s a fool at the core, after all. I take notice 
we’ve never had a scoundrel for a President yet — we’ve 
had honest men making some terribly bad mistakes, that’s 
all. The country ain’t going to the dogs, like you hear 
people say, if Van Buren’s reelected; personally I’m opposed 
to the policy he stands for, and I hope he won’t be.” 

Nathan looked at him musingly, struck with a sudden 
idea: “It’s odd to think that you’re not American born, Mr. 
Marsh,” he said; “nobody’d know it to hear you.” 

“Well, I got transplanted pretty young,” said the old 
man, smiling a little; “I was just about your age — no, a 
little older, I guess. And a man ain’t any good to his coun¬ 
try, nor his country to him till he’s that old. I’ve been 
here fifty years — made all my money here — made all my 
friends here. The old country ain’t anything to me now — 
it’s inevitable you should take up with the land and the peo¬ 
ple where your home is; you can’t help it. Of course you 
don’t hear me blowing around about British encroachment, 
and giving the old country a black eye whenever I get the 
chance; but, Nat, you don’t hear any sensible person doing 
that, anyhow, no difference where they come from. You 
think it’s funny, I suppose, that I should be such a strong 
Harrison man when Harrison licked the boots off the British 
up there at Tippecanoe, hey?” he added, and reading a 
surprised and rather abashed consent in the other’s face, 
began to laugh. “That’s a good while ago,” he said, flour¬ 
ishing his hand; “I’m willing to let by-gones be by-gones. 
Lord love you, Nat, I’m doing a deal more for Harrison than 
vote for him, and you know it. Did you send that check 
to the committee ? It was fifty dollars, wasn’t it ? When 
are they going to have the demonstration ? Three or four 
weeks, ain’t it?” 

“Washington’s Birthday,” Nat told him; “I suppose that’s 
the earliest they could have it on account of the roads. 
They’re pretty bad this time of year; and they’re expecting 
people from all over the State, you know. Why, even Mrs. 
Slaney’s had letters asking for rooms !” 

Old George nodded. “Fifty dollars ought to drape the 
whole damn town in bunting, seems to me,” he said. “But 
I ain’t the only one. They’ve asked everybody for a sub- 


EXORITUR CLAMOR VIRUM 


123 


scription. I’ll bet Sam Gwynne went down into his breeches’ 
pocket. The Supreme Bench would about suit Sam, if he 
could get there; and I shouldn’t wonder if he did this time, 
being a personal friend of the general’s. Sam’s always 
making a great bid for popularity, and yet somehow he’s 
never been very popular, after ail.” 

“ They’re going to have a big shindy at the demonstration,” 
Nathan observed; “one of the boys from Barlow Brothers 
was in the other day, and he told me they had a pile of ban¬ 
ners as high as the ceiling got ready to stretch across the street, 
with ‘One Term’ and ‘Union for the sake of the Union’ 
and ‘The Constitution and its Defenders’ on ’em.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Marsh, rubbing his chin; 
“ anything that brings people here’s good for the town, I guess 
— good for business — still —” 

“Why, won’t we have to shut up ?” 

“Wouldn’t wonder. On the twenty-second, anyhow. I’ve 
had about forty people ask for places to see the parade — at 
the upstairs windows, you know. Mrs. Ducey wants to 
bring a party down — big mistake to my notion, women and 
children in a crowd like that, full of drunken men and Lord 
knows what besides. ’Tain’t safe; I told Anne so. But 
the next thing you know she’d got a plan to take the carriage 
and horses —” 

“ Good Heavens ! ” ejaculated Nathan, perturbed. He had 
had trouble with the horses, who were a spirited pair, during 
his administration, and, as is not uncommonly the case, 
doubted any other man’s ability to manage them. 

“Yes, and drive around to the corner of Long and High, 
and watch the procession from there, because it would be so 
much the best way to see it, sitting in the carriage! ‘The 
devil it would!’ says I. ‘You’d better come to the store, 
after all, I guess.’ And then, by damn, Burke, she says: 
‘ Why, Uncle George, how you do chop and change around ! 
You said you didn’t want us to come to the store!’ Ho, 
ho!” 

Nathan had to join in the other’s laugh; he could almost 
hear Mrs. Ducey. Yet it was with a good deal of concern 
that he said: “She oughtn’t to do that, Mr. Marsh. Can’t 
you stop her ? You can’t depend on those horses, and there’ll 
be yelling and singing and commotion and two or three brass 


124 


NATHAN BURKE 


bands, and somebody told me they were going to have some 
kind of floats with log-cabins, — imitation ones, I mean, — 
and a whole lot more foolishness. It’ll be enough to drive 
any horse crazy.” 

“You might tell her that yourself, if you think it’ll do any 
good,” said Mr. Marsh, coolly; “she says she knows any 
number of people who are going to see it that way; and the 
horses are perfectly safe! ‘That’s a mistake,’ says I; ‘you 
can bank on it there ain’t any safe horses; there’s a few safe 
drivers , and I don’t know whether this young Williams fellow 
is one of ’em or not.’ But it seems George is going to drive; 
they won’t have room for anybody but the family.” 

“George!” 

_“That’s what I’m told. I said, ‘Well, that’s all right if, 
after you get there, you’ll have the horses taken out and led 
around to the back of the square, or somewhere where they’ll 
be out of the fuss.’ She said—” He paused to bite off a 
chew. 

“ That would be safe,” said Nat, in relief. “ Did she say—?” 

“She said ‘H’ra/’” said old George, grinning. 

The Log-Cabin-and-Hard-Cider enthusiasts were not the 
only ones, however, who approached Mr. Marsh for support 
and contributions. There was already a third party in the 
field, destined to play a much greater role in our national 
affairs than any of us supposed. For one day, as Nathan 
was occupied at his desk, Mr. Ducey overwhelmingly busy 
amongst his papers as usual, and Marsh sitting in his cus¬ 
tomary chair behind them, with his feet under the stove which 
was introduced into the little back office during the winter 
months, there walked in a body of important-looking gentle¬ 
men, headed by one with a black coat, a white neckcloth, and 
a long, harsh-featured, and coffin-shaped face in whom Nat 
recognized Doctor Sharpless, a divine of the Presbyterian 
church, where the young man sometimes—I was about to say 
worshipped, but I fear that is not what Mr. Burke did. He 
used to go in diffidently of a Sunday morning and take a seat 
at the rear, in a rather dark corner, whence he could steal un¬ 
observed before the sermon began or fall comfortably asleep 
during its progress, waking up inopportunely sometimes with 
a snort and a jerk and conscious of a ghastly break in Mr. 


EXORITUR CLAMOR YIRUM 


125 


Sharpless’s eloquence, while the reverend gentleman who, 
fortunately, was quite near-sighted, peered in his direction. 
Yet the doctor’s sermons were by no means soothing in their 
substance; the nether fires blazed in them; the worm that 
dieth not was incredibly active. Retribution, punishment, 
awful and eternal, Mr. Sharpless brandished at his congrega¬ 
tion and dinned into the ears of his God. Nathan — and 
this, sad to say, was the profane employment in which he 
spent most of his waking hours during the service — used to 
study the backs of the two feminine Sharplesses as they sat 
in the ministerial pew directly beneath the pulpit and wonder 
if those gentle, quiet, and sweet-faced women, particularly 
the younger one, the daughter with her devoutly drooped head 
and long, dark, shadowy lashes, had to suffer this incendiary 
oratory all day long. It was frightful to imagine what the 
smallest peccadillo might entail, were it committed under Mr. 
Sharpless’s eye. When he stalked in at the head of his fellows, 
“Powers above!” thought Nat; “he can’t be going to haul 
old George up before the judgment seat! ” For it was impos¬ 
sible to divest the minister of his professional solemnity; and 
equally impossible to figure either a curse or a blessing taking 
any effect on old Mr. Marsh. The latter, in fact, upon seeing 
the party, grunted a welcome, got up without any appearance 
of concern, and shook hands all around as if they had been 
ordinary sinners like himself. And when he sat down again, 
and asked what he could do for them, looking them over 
meanwhile with his shrewd, not unkindly eyes, with his heavy 
fists planted on the arms of his chair, he dominated pven Mr. 
Sharpless. What he could do for them, it appeared, was, 
I daresay, what Mr. Marsh had expected — he could subscribe 
to the campaign fund of the Abolition Party, which this com¬ 
mittee represented. Nathan, arrested by the words, listened 
in spite of himself. It was the first time he had heard of that 
party, their principles not being at all widespread, nor the 
subject of much discussion in those days. 

“In the convention held at Warsaw, New York State, last 
November, Mr. Marsh,” explained Mr. Sharpless, coughing 
and drawing a severe document from the tail-pocket of his 
black coat, “our party nominated, as you probably know, 
Mr. James G. Birney of New York for President —” 

“I know Birney,” said old Marsh, briefly. 


126 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Ah? And for Vice-president Francis J. Lemoyne oi 
Pennsylvania, both men who would be an honor to any cause, 
Mr. Marsh —” 

“I thought they’d declined ?” said Mr. Marsh, in a tone of 
amiable inquiry. 

“They have signified that intention — but, Mr. Marsh, 
they cannot decline, they will not be allowed to decline. 
Ours is a sacred cause, a holy cause, the cause of freedom, of 
righteousness, of humanity — no man can refuse the privilege 
of being standard-bearer to such a cause,” said Sharpless, with 
energy, the color coming into his long, pale face, quite uncon¬ 
scious of either humor or irony in his statement. “ If you will 
allow me to read you the resolutions passed at the convention ” 
— he opened the paper and began to read in the same loud, 
resonant, and determined voice in which he delivered the err¬ 
ing over to everlasting damnation every Sunday — “‘every 
consideration of duty and expediency which ought to control 
the action of Christian freemen requires of the Abolitionists 
of the United States to organize a distinct and independent 
political party, embracing all the necessary means for nomi¬ 
nating candidates for office and sustaining them by public 
suffrage — 

Old Marsh listened in silence, rubbing his chin; Ducey 
yawned behind his hand, and presently got up, excusing him¬ 
self, and went into the outer store with some vague murmur 
about waiting on a customer; Nathan went back to his 
ledger, not much impressed. Only twenty years more and 
the guns would be roaring at Gettysburg and Antietam, and 
the death-lists coming up every morning, and what wretched 
crop of tears and misery and bitter hatred should we reap 
from our forefathers’ wretched sowing! We were not dream¬ 
ing of that in Mr. Marsh’s little, dingy office that gray Janu¬ 
ary morning of 1840 while we listened to Mr. Sharpless read; 
one member of the committee had a cold and punctuated 
the discourse with trumpet-like brayings into a pale yellow 
bandanna handkerchief, I remember. Nat heartily wished 
they would wind up the business, get whatever “necessary 
means ” they could out of old George, and go their ways. The 
young man thought Mr. Sharpless’s fierce enthusiasm a little 
discredited his cause; he was one of the fanatics, headlong, 
impractical, somewhat — to be frank — somewhat bloody- 


EXORITUR CLAMOR VIRUM 


127 


minded, without whom no great movement is ever accom¬ 
plished. 

“ What do we expect to do ?” he echoed when Mr. Marsh 
had risen and, taking out his check-book, gone over to his 
desk, which he did rather to Nathan’s surprise, after a very 
little talk; “what do we expect to do? Why — why, can 
you ask that, Mr. Marsh ? You’ve lived in the South, you’ve 
witnessed the iniquities of slavery, the unspeakable degrada¬ 
tion of the trade in human flesh — and you ask us what we 
expect to do!” 

“Well, 1 don’t imagine you’re going to buy up all the nig¬ 
gers and set ’em free with the help of my contribution, Doc¬ 
tor Sharpless,” said the old man, looking up from the quill he 
was shaping — we still used quills in the office in deference to 
his whim; he tried the nib on his thumb-nail and went on; 
“that wouldn’t quite settle the trouble. And, of course, you 
ain’t going to spend it buying drinks for the voters and getting 
on the right side of ’em generally. No, I know you won’t do 
that,” he added, grinning openly as he met the minister’s ex¬ 
pression of horror; “no, of course, this is for legitimate cam¬ 
paign expenses — hiring halls and paying for lighting ’em, 
and printing and stationery and postage and all that. Well, 
I’d just as lief give something towards it. I believe you 
Abolitionists are in earnest” — his manner distantly sug¬ 
gested to Nathan — “if you are a pack of fools — ” but the 
others probably did not so construe it. 

“We felt that you sympathized with the cause, Mr. Marsh, 
we knew that we could relie on your support” — Sharpless 
began warmly. Old George held up an arresting hand. 
With the other he lifted the check with the wet ink shining 
on it and waved it to and fro over the stove. 

“You’re out there, Mr. Sharpless,” he said. “ I don’t exactly 
sympathize with your cause—not the way you mean, that is.” 

“What? Why, Mr. Marsh, I myself have heard you say 
that you left the South because you did not approve of the 
condition of slavery. The negro —” 

“The niggers!” said Marsh, contemptuously; “why, Mr. 
Sharpless, I don’t give a damn for the niggers. It’s the white 
people I’m thinking about. I don’t know that slavery harms 
a nigger; bond or free, he ain’t much good that I can see. 
But there’s no question but what it’s bad for his master. 


128 


NATHAN BURKE 


You’re right saying I got away from the South because of 
slavery — I couldn’t stand the white men it made. Slavery 
rots ’em out; there ain’t a country nor a race on the face of 
the globe that can stand up against it. If it paid, there’d be 
something to say for it. But, by God, sir, it don’t pay ! I 
lived there ten years, and I’ve got it figured pretty fine. It’s 
the most costly and least profitable labor you can employ — 
why, even a planter will acknowledge that, if he’s a smart 
fellow, and you can get him to go into the calculations with 
you. It’s death to any kind of enterprise or ambition to live 
alongside it. If you could get hold of the planters and make 
’em understand that,” suggested Mr. Marsh, folding up the 
check and shoving it into the minister’s slightly hesitant 
hand, “you might do some good. Only they haven’t been 
brought up to look at things in a practical way, and it’s hard 
to beat it into a man with two or three hundred nigger slaves 
and a big sugar or cotton plantation that he’s got the little end 
of the bargain, after all. But there’s no use antagonizing ’em 
with a lot of blood-and-thunder talk about the degradation 
and infamy of their own lives. In the first place you don’t 
know anything about their lives—” 

“Mr. Marsh,” said Sharpless, in a trembling voice, and ris¬ 
ing with dignity in front of his scandalized committee, “I 
have always supposed you to be a Christian man, but it seems 
to me you take an unfair advantage of — of — you think 
your generosity gives you the privilege to — to—” 

“Before you go any farther, sir, I’d like to ask you one 
question,” pursued old George, unmoved. “Have you ever 
been in the South ? Have any of you ever been in the South ? 
No ? Well, then, gentlemen, I say what I said before,—you 
don’t know anything about it. Now when I tell you the 
niggers, generally speaking, are treated as well as they de¬ 
serve, it’s the truth. Nine-tenths of the stories you’ve 
been hearing and believing are damn lies. If you’d leave off 
harping on that string and show’em where the system’s at 
fault, and how much they’re out of pocket by it, seems to me 
you’d stand a better chance of persuading ’em to your 
views—” he ushered them out with no great ceremony. 
Whatever the feelings with which they had listened to this 
exceedingly plain exposition of Mr. Marsh’s opinions, they 
realized he had no more time to spend on them. 


EXORITUR CLAMOR VIRUM 


129 


“Queer old file, Sharpless, isn’t he?” said Ducey, amiably, 
returning to the office; “I can’t stand these Abolitionists — 
they’re too visionary for me. No earthly chance of their 
candidate’s election — no earthly chance, and here they come 
around asking for money ! The whole idea is so impractical. 
Why, they couldn’t get along without slaves down South; 
the climate would kill white laborers. But, of course, Sharp¬ 
less would never take anything like that into consideration — 
perfectly impractical, like all the rest of them,” said William, 
worrying among his papers with much importance. “Ever 
heard Sharpless preach ? I went once; the sermon was solid 
hell-fire from beginning to end. That boy of his is absolutely 
worthless, they say.” 

“Huh! Never saw him,” growled his senior, carelessly, 
and there followed a silence and a great industry of pens at all 
the desks. Nat was faintly disappointed; he had hoped 
somehow that Mr. Ducey, having begun on the Sharpless 
family, would continue — would say something about — why, 
about Mrs. Sharpless, to be sure, or even Miss Sharpless. 
Nathan had never seen the son either, so, naturally was not 
interested in him. But it happened that a week or so later, 
going into the tap-room of the Erin-go-Bragh one afternoon, 
and investing in a glass of something hot to ward off the se¬ 
verity of a nipping winter air, Mr. IJurke inadvertently laid 
down upon the counter in payment a piece of money which he 
generally kept carefully bestowed in a separate pocket against 
just such accidents, to wit: Francie Blake’s quarter, that 
storied coin. He finished the drink and came away, but luckily 
discovered his loss almost at once and hurried back. The place 
had been nearly empty, so that he had good hopes of tracing it. 

“I gave you two bits for that whiskey-toddy, didn’t I?” 
he asked the barkeeper. “It’s a keepsake and I’d like to get 
it back. Here’s another. My quarter was dated 1837, and 
had N. B. scratched with a pen-knife on one side and F. B. on 
the other — the scratches weren’t deep enough to show very 
much. Will you look in the till, please ? ” 

The barkeeper obligingly consented, but he searched in 
vain, even going so far as to spread a handful of quarters, 
all there were in the drawer, for Nathan to examine himself. 
“I’d hate to lose it,” said the latter, poking and prying about 
with genuine regret. 


130 


NATHAN BURKE 


“I changed a dollar for that feller in the corner, see him? 
Maybe he’s got it. Oh, Jim!” said the barkeeper, and he 
pointed into the back room where there was a billiard-table 
at which Nat, in common with the other patrons of the es¬ 
tablishment, occasionally performed. It was empty at the 
moment except for a young man sitting at a little wooden 
table by the window and writing in the failing light at an 
amazing rate of speed, with a pile of foolscap sheets in front 
of him. He was a tall young man, very thin, shabbily dressed, 
and lantern-jawed, in a coat buttoned up close to the neck, 
with a frayed black stock, no collar, and no cuffs. He looked 
up as they spoke and, on being called, caught Nat’s eye, and 
nodded pleasantly. “ Just a minute,” said he; “I think I’ve 
got your quarter, sir.” He wiped his pen on the sleeve of his 
all but ragged surtout, arose, and presently fished out the 
two bits from an old leather pocket-book in which, as Nathan 
could not help seeing, there was very little else. “Eureka!” 
he said with solemnity, handed it over, bowed with a flourish, 
and went back to his writing. It appeared to be finished, for 
he gathered up the papers in a moment, clapped on a moth- 
eaten beaver hanging on the back of his chair, and walked off, 
nodding to Nat once more with a smile so sudden, genial, and 
valiant, spite of his poor outside, as to move one with an in¬ 
explicable liking. 

“Who is he, do you know?” said Burke to the barkeeper, 
vaguely conscious of having seen the other elsewhere. 

“Yes, oh, yes. He comes in here all the time to write. 
We’ve got to calling that table his, it’s where he always 
sits. He writes for the Journal or maybe the Indepen¬ 
dent — I dunno — don’t make much difference to Jim, 
I guess. They’ve got a lot of new papers started just for 
the campaign, you know, the Straight-out Harrisonian ’s one 
of ’em — b’lieve he writes for that, too. Seen it ? I guess 
Jim ain’t just wallerin’ in money, like old Pop Marsh,” 
said the barkeeper, who knew Nathan — knew, indeed, 
every man in town and was a kind of walking directory. 
He wiped off the counter and went on, “Why, his name’s 
Sharpless, he’s the preacher’s son — kinder on the outs with 
the old man, I hear.” 


CHAPTER X 


Log-Cabins-and-Hard-Cider 

Somebody estimated that there were between twenty and 
thirty thousand people quartered in the capitol city the 
week of Washington’s Birthday — something like four or 
five times its regular population. Notwithstanding three 
days’ steady rain, and a condition of the roads and rivers 
which, had the visit been necessary for business instead of 
pleasure, would have been considered impassable, the town 
was full of celebrating Harrisonians; and more were arriv¬ 
ing by every stage, in their own conveyances, on horseback, 
and afoot. The taverns overflowed; the Ducey house 
was crowded, every house in town was crowded; and it was 
reported that Governor G wynne, who was entertaining the 
Whig Campaign Committee, had all the rooms in his big 
mansion occupied and cots in the parlors. Burke, going 
home at six o’clock in the evening, found the bed not yet 
made up in his little room, and Mm. Slaney dashing right 
and left with her head tied up in a towel, flustered, untidy, 
and happy. “Oh, Mr. Burke,” she panted; “I’m so sorry 
your room ain’t fixed, but you’re so sympathetic I knew 
you’d understand. I ain’t had as much to do since Slaney 
went away. He kind of drew people to the house, you know, 
card-playing gentlemen and such.” 

Nat had a shrewd guess that there were probably some 
few of Mr. Slaney’s acquaintances amongst all these single- 
hearted supporters of the Farmer of North Bend. You 
might see them following their chosen profession in the 
back rooms of a dozen coffee-houses, or congregated about 
the doors, wielding gold toothpicks in a graceful manner, 
impassive, pale-faced, shifty-eyed, in rich waistcoats fes¬ 
tooned with watch-chains, with shining bell-crowned hats 
perched aslant on their sleek bears’ greased locks. They 
swaggered along our streets, flourishing their canes, arm in 
arm, leering into all the women’s bonnets as they passed; it 
• 131 


132 


NATHAN BURKE 


gave us something of a brilliant, metropolitan air. It also 
strengthened Mr. Burke’s conviction that these crowds were 
no place for women and little children, and indeed, setting 
aside the strangers, one did not see very many of them. 
The mob, if good-natured and on the whole orderly, was 
yet of a roughness seldom or never seen nowadays ; and hard 
cider, the drink of this campaign, was being absorbed with 
a great deal too much patriotic zeal to suit the quieter ele¬ 
ment in the community. Some Democrats and even some 
Abolitionists must have generously agreed to forego their 
animosity and join in this particular species of ratification; 
for Nathan identified not a few whose adverse opinions were 
notorious, and nobody could possibly have been drunker 
or shouted for Harrison with more fervor. All the street- 
corner orators redoubled their efforts; the Journal came 
out with flaming editorials; ever so many poets burst into 
spontaneous song. They saluted the Whig candidate with: 
“Hail, Warrior Chieftain of the West!” or admonished the 

“. . . 1 Powers that be ’ 

That our bleeding country shall be free, 

And breathe its wonted prosperity. 

Yes, Tippy! . . .” 

And so on; the narrow bounds of verse probably required 
the last abbreviation; Tippecanoe is a word that defies the 
muse. Otherwise nothing was too much for these gallant 
rhymesters. 

In spite of the rain which fell with a sodden persistence 
up till the very day of the celebration, when it eased every¬ 
body’s mind by finally clearing off, the decorations, flags, 
canvas banners, portraits, and all the rest were put in place; 
and there was a stupendous activity among the speakers, 
singers, musicians, and others who were to figure in the 
exercises. Some bandsmen rented a warehouse-loft over 
against the Slaney residence and kept the whole neighbor¬ 
hood awake until the small hours, booming and blowing 
“Tippecanoe and Tyler too,” and like melodies, till an 
indignant sufferer in the room beneath Burke’s sent a boot- 
jack through their window and broke up the meeting. Nat 
heard the crash and swearing, as he lay with his law-books 


LOG-CABINS-AND-HARD-CIDER 


135 


striving to study, and blew out the candle and turned over, 
chuckling. He told Mr. Marsh about it the next day in 
an odd hour, to the old man’s infinite amusement. They 
had decided to shut up the store; an enterprising adventurer 
came along and wanted to exhibit a number of chained 
’coons, which, he said, were “regular Harrisonian emblems,” 
and sure to attract trade, in the front part; but Nat, who 
happened to be in charge at the time, declined. The young 
man, who was always soft-hearted, felt a pity for the har¬ 
assed animals worrying at their bonds; he would have liked 
to buy them all and set them free, but their owner, perceiv¬ 
ing this mood, over-cannily set such a staggering price upon 
his captives that Nat had to give up his sentimental plan. 
That same morning he had seen, with another pang of foolish 
sympathy, the live eagle chained to its stake in the State- 
house yard, which they proposed to carry aloft in the pro¬ 
cession the next day — a poor sort of symbol of Liberty, 
Nat thought. One of its legs was broken, and Heaven knows 
in what pain and fever the creature sat erect, motionless, and 
sleepless on its narrow perch. There was a crowd of ruthless 
idlers about, women with babies, louts of lads, and one of 
these latter was prodding the poor bird with a stick, an 
indignity it bore with the same fierce indifference, paying 
no heed when Nathan cuffed its tormentors aside and dis¬ 
solved the circle of spectators. Bird of Freedom, indeed! 

Mr. Burke himself took no part in the ceremonies, having 
rejected the sole opportunity offered him — that of parad¬ 
ing with the Harrison Guards who had been advertised 
through the papers that they were requested “to appear in 
uniform at your armory the 20th inst., at early candle-light, 
for the purpose of Drill and to make preparation for our 
parade on the 22d (Washington’s Birthday). And we 
also invite any young gentleman of respectable standing in 
society to meet with us.” Some of the clerks were mem¬ 
bers of this body, but Nathan laughingly refused their invi¬ 
tations. There would be enough people making fools of 
themselves (he privately was of opinion) without him. 

“I know one man that won’t vote for Harrison, anyhow,” 
he said to Mr. Marsh, and repeated what he could remember 
of Jake Darnell’s openly expressed disapprobation. “He 
used to say he hadn’t anything against Harrison as a general 


134 


NATHAN BURKE 


in the field, but up there before the Fort Meigs fight, Jake 
said it was a case of ‘one’s afraid and t’other dasn’t’ with 
Harrison and Proctor both,” said Nat; “each one of ’em 
thought the other was too strong for him and put the fight 
off as long as he decently could, Darnell says. And he used 
to insist that Harrison didn’t treat Croghan right when he 
could hear the guns at Fort Stephenson only ten miles away 
and knew how small Croghan’s force was, and yet didn’t 
send him any help. When I was a boy, I thought if I could 
only grow up to be like Croghan, I’d be the finest man on 
earth; Jake made such a hero of him. But he used to be quite 
severe on Harrison.” 

“Huh! There ain’t anything to that — that’s just talk. 
He’ll be as ready to vote the straight Whig ticket as any¬ 
body,” said Marsh, sagely. And to Nat’s surprise this 
prophecy came literally true. He ran across old Darnell 
in the crowds not long before the celebration, and found 
him enthusiastically drinking hard cider to the success of 
“Old Tip” with some chance-met Harrisonians as if no 
candidate could have better suited him! 

“Take a drink, Nat, take drink — here, lemme pay fer 
it — don’t you pay fer it,” he said eagerly, seeking for the 
money with his unsteady hands. “Lemme pay fer all yer 
drinks, boys — this one’s on me — my turn, y’know. Here, 
you feller, bring s’ more cider — hard cider — hard’s you’ve 
got it. Why, boys, I fit with Harrison, I fit — hie — fer 
him there up to Fort Meigs. My name’s Darned, you all 
know me, I guess. 01’ Darnell, ol’ Jake Darnell. Dunno 
who’d vote for Harrison if ’twouldn’t be me, hey? Take 
drink, Nat, don’t be backwards. Lord, I’ll pay fer it. My 
frien’ Nat Burke, boys, known him ever since he was so 
high —” 

“You didn’t use to let me drink in those days, Jake,” 
said Nathan, with a laugh; “I was a sort of a good boy, don’t 
you remember?” 

“So ye was, Nat, so ye was, durned if ye wasn’t the best 
boy I ever seed,” said his poor old friend, shaking him 
warmly by the hand, with watery eyes; “take some cider. 
Cider can’t hurt ye — but you oughtn’t ever to touch no 
whiskey, Nat,” he added warningly; “takes a ver’ strong 
man stand whiskey. You stick to cider — take a drink. ’S 


LOG-CABINS-AND-HARD-CIDER 


135 


on me, y’know. Young feller like you ain’t got much 
money, I know that. My treat, boys, step up!” 

“I guess I don’t want any just now, Jake. Look here, 
where’s Nance?” said Nat, and was gratified to see Jake 
straighten up with a sudden and startling return to sober¬ 
ness, and look all about him, muddled yet himself. 

“I dunno, I dunno where Nance is,” he said with concern; 
“I brung her here — leastways she jest would come with 
me Kinder sot on it, th’ way women git, y’know, Nat, 
an’ I jest nachelly couldn’t git out o’ bringin’ her. I left 
her at a store tradin’. She hadn’t orter be alone, d’ye think ? 
’Tain’t any place fer a girl, is it, Nat?” He looked at 
Nathan with a piteous perplexity and self-abasement. “I 
wisht I knew how to take keer of Nance; I ain’t fitten fer 
to have a daughter an’ that’s th’ truth, an ol’ drunken houn’ 
like me. It’s hard, Nat.” 

Nathan got him away from his boon companions without 
further trouble; indeed, these jolly gentlemen were well 
pleased to part when they saw there was nothing more to 
be got out of their backwoods acquaintance. Darnell 
presently remembered where he had left the girl, and sought 
the place with a painful anxiety; he accused himself bitterly 
as they went along. Nathan followed and listened, touched 
and wondering; it struck him that Jake was getting old or 
else his way of life was beginning to tell on him at last. 
Burke had never before known him to be garrulous in his 
cups; and there was an occasional feebleness in his voice 
or look or movements that was not from drink. 

“I don’t know why you worry so about Nance, Jake,” 
he said, trying to allay the other’s fears; “ she’s a good girl 
— she’s all right — she can’t come to any harm. You see 
she’s just as smart as she’s pretty — and plucky too. No- 
body’d make free with Nance, I guess,” said Nat, with con¬ 
viction, remembering the girl’s free and determined spirit. 

“They’d better not,” said Darnell, with a flash of the quick, 
cool, hard, and ready man whom Nathan recollected in the 
old days; it was gone in an instant, and he caught at the 
young fellow’s arm almost with timidity as they crossed the 
street among the moving vehicles. “It’s gittin’ too crowded 
up aroun’ th’ settlements fer me — I reckon I’ll have to put 
out fer th’ Illinois er mebbe Iowy Territory,” he said com- 


136 


NATHAN BURKE 


plainingly; “wisht Fd ’a’ gone long ago. I don’t like so 
many people, Nathan, I ain’t ever got used to ’em. That’s 
what makes me suspicious-like fer Nance, you know. She 
thinks everybody’s good. Well, they ain’t good, you ’n’ I 
know that. A woman don’t hev’ no chanct to know about 
people — a girl that ain’t ever had any mother, like Nance. 
She’s got a kinder idee Mrs. Ducey’s th’ Angel Gabriel, like 
it tells ’bout in th’ Bible,” said Darnell, whose notions of 
Holy Writ, while reverent, were somewhat misty; “well, 
I don’t guess Mrs. Ducey’s any angel — you’d oughter hear 
Joe Williams, nothin’ but a boy, of course, but still—! 
You never talked none, Nat, but I guess you know, jest th’ 
same* But Nance always was one to take up with some wild 
notion like that — Lord, you remember how she’s always 
been — an’ she’ll stick to it, too. It’ll make her trouble 
some day when I’m dead and gone — ’less’n you’ll look 
after her, like you said you would,” he finished weakly; 
and Nathan again promised him, a little saddened. 

They found her in the shop, radiant among heaps of bright 
goods the. salesman was spreading out before her. Burke 
had scarcely ever seen Nance busied in so womanly a fashion; 
his boyhood recollections vaguely presented her as a slim, sun- 
colored creature, sexless and wild, bare-footed, in the gaudy 
calicoes she loved, familiar with the fields and deadenings, 
a sister to fauns and dryads. That Nance could be a woman, 
and a very beautiful one at that, took him afresh with sur¬ 
prise and a sharp understanding of Darnell’s fears. He 
resented the look of patronizing admiration the clerk bent 
on her as she hung over his«tawdry stuffs. Nance did not 
see it, perhaps would not have interpreted it if she had; she 
was quite absorbed, forgetful of her responsibilities. They 
returned upon her visibly as she looked up with her deer-like 
alertness at her father’s step. 

“Where you been ? Where’s yer money ?” she said sharply 
— but with the sort of sharpness with which she might have 
addressed a child; there was a note of defence and protection 
in it. She looked at Nathan and her face cleared. “Oh, 
was you with him, Nat ? My, how grand we are, ain’t we? 
You — why, you’re all kind of growed up !” She eyed him 
with frank commendation. 

“It’s all right, Nance — I got my money — here, mebbe 


LOG-CABINS-AND-HARD-CIDER 


13 ? 


you’d better take it, though,” said Darnell, humbly, and 
brought out his old wallet and thrust it into her hands. 
“They’s eight dollars there. I — I didn’t spend none — 
not to ’mount to anything, that is,” he assured her. “Git 
what ye want — git what ye want. Show her some kinder 
pretty women fixin’s, will ye, mister?” he said to the clerk; 
and the latter, happening to glance aside at Nathan, very 
wisely banished the smirk and wink which he had allowed 
to show momentarily upon his countenance. 

“I dunno whether to take this plaid piece er this here 
solid red,” sighed Nance, in a blissful indecision, returning 
to the unwonted delights of her shopping. “It’s fer to wear 
at th’ big meetin’, ye know, Nathan, next week,” she ex¬ 
plained parenthetically; “I’m goin’ along with th’ Wil¬ 
liamses — an’ did Pap tell ye ? He’s goin’ to be in th’ 
march, ain’t ye, Pap?” 

“I was layin’ off not to tell him that,” said Darnell,sheep¬ 
ishly; “I — I reckon it would ’a’ s’prised you, Nat, to see 
me settin’ up in one of these here picture wagons they’re 
goin’ to hev’. Did you know ’bout ’em ? You ain’t in it, 
are ye?” 

Burke laughed as he told him no, and Jake went on to 
describe the preparations enthusiastically. They were 
goin’ to hev’ kinder platforms on wheels, not so very high 
from th’ ground, y’know, not more’n three feet, he guessed, 
or it wouldn’t be stiddy, with two-three teams hitched on 
an’ drawin’ ’em along. An’ reg’lar made-up pictures on 
’em — he didn’t know what you’d call ’em — he never 
heard of nothin’ like ’em before. They was to be a log- 
cabin — a sure ’nough log-cabin, built of logs, Nat, with a 
little winder like we used to hev’ made out’n greased paper. 
D’ye b’lieve they’d come to him an’ to ol’ Pascoe to find out 
how ’twas done ? An’ a chimney-place of stones chinked 
up with clay-mud, ’n’ a fire in it, ’n’ a mess o’ mush in a 
kittle hangin’ over it — 

“An’ deerskins nailed up outside to dry, ye know, Nat, 
’n’ b’ar, ’n’ otter pelts,” Nance chimed in; “’n’ Pap’ll be 
settin’ with his ol’ rifle crost his knees right in th’ door !” 
She patted him on the shoulder, and Darnell chuckled a little 
excitedly and foolishly. 

“Cat’s out’n th’ bag now,” he said; “I was fixin’ fer to 


138 


NATHAN BURKE 


give yeh a s’prise. But who ever heerd of a woman that 
c’ld keep er secret?” 

“I didn’t know yeh didn’t want fer him to know that” 
Nance explained; “I thort all along when you was talkin’ 
’bout s’prisin’ Nathan, ye meant sunthin’ else — that other , 
yeh know.” She looked at him meaningly, but Darnell 
stared in evident bewilderment; his mind had been occupied 
with the spectacular role wherein he would presently figure 
before the crowds to the exclusion of everything else. Once 
launched upon that topic it was with a painful slowness 
that he addressed himself to any other. “What? I don’ 
unnerstan’ —what yeh mean, hey?” 

“Why, that ’bout—’bout Nathan’s Gran’paw Granger, 
don’ yeh rec’lect?” said the girl. She began to insist anx¬ 
iously; “’ course ye rec’lect, Pap. Yeh was tellin’ me ’bout it 
yestiddy. Sunthin’ ’about th’ Refugee Track it was — you 
remember. Granger he ownded th’ hull of th’ Track — 
wan’t that it?” 

“Gracious, that is a sure enough surprise!” Burke ejacu¬ 
lated in open amusement; “the whole of the Refugee Tract! 
Whew! The town’s built all over it now — right where we 
stand. What a pity Grandpa Granger didn’t know he was 
going to have a grandson ! He might have held on to it, 
and willed me some.” 

“No, no, that wan’t it, Nathan,” Darnell interrupted, 
a little irritated partly at the other’s laughing incredulity, 
partly, no doubt, at the slow working of his own mind or 
memory. “No, ye got it wrong — Nance got it wrong,” 
he repeated crossly, yet still in a pathetic confusion; “I — 
I dunno jest how ’twas — but ’twan’t that way. Nance 
she’s got it wrong —yeh hadn’t orter tell th’ wimmen- 
folks anything ’bout — ’bout proputty. They jest nachelly 
cain’t hold ther tongues.” 

“Well, Nat’s gran’paw was a Britisher Refugee, ’n’ th’ 
Gov’ment give him some lan’ fer to live on, anyhow,” said 
Nance, not at all cast down by this severity ; perhaps it 
pleased her as an evidence of returning spirit or activity 
in her father. “He tol’ yeh so himself, didn’t he?” 

“Yes, but he never said he owned all of th’ Track — they 
was more ’n’ him Refugees,” said Darnell, with impatience. 
He turned to Burke. “Ef he hadn’t ’a’ died, I reckon yeh 


LOG-CABINS-AND-HARD-CIDER 


139 


might hev’ heired it, Nat, like yeh was say in’. Yeh needn’t 
ter grin that way. I was thinkin’ ’bout it th’ other day, an’ 
I sez to myself, 'By criminy, I don’t b’lieve Nat knows 
’bout that there ol’ Refugee Track. I’d orter tell him,’ an’ 
then this here procession fer Washin’ton’s Birthday, an’ me 
bein’ in it an’ all kinder put yer gran’paw out’n my head.” 

“I guess he didn’t own enough to keep anybody awake 
nights worrying over it,” said Nat; "much obliged to you 
for telling me just the same, Jake. Some day I’d like for 
you to tell me everything you can remember about my 
grandfather — when you have time and feel like it, you 
know.” 

He assented vaguely. Sartain, yes — when he had time. 
He went on talking about the parade. It appeared there 
were to be other log-cabins — "besides them fellers that’s 
cornin’ down from Cuyahoga with th’ full-rigged ship — 
don’t that beat all, Nat? A lake-schooner as large as life, 
only sot up on some kind of platform on wheels like th’ rest 
of us!” Darnell said delightedly; "somebody was tellin’ 
me ’bout it. I’m kinder skeered that’ll lay over our log- 
cabins— don’t want them Cuyahogy fellers to beat us, 
y’know. I’m in th’ first cabin — yeh want to look fer us along 
the Franklinton Road some time ’bout noon. An’ Nance 
she’s goin’ to be with Mis’ Williams ’n’ some of th’ children, 
’n’ stand somewheres near th’ corner of Long ’n’ High, so’s 
I’ll know where to look fer her. You be there, too, will ye? 
Ye wanter see me in th’ cabin, don’t ye, Nat? Tell you, 
it’ll be th’ biggest sight ever was ’round here, them cabins !” 

Nathan promised him to be on the spot; indeed he made 
an inward resolve to look after the old man as far as possible. 
"I guess you think I’d orter not let him do it,” Nance said 
to him privately. She knotted her black brows and looked 
at him wistfully. To Burke there was something at once 
sad and beautiful in these mutual anxieties of father and 
daughter; as seemed to be his fate, he was the confidant of 
both. "I couldn’t help it,” the girl went on; "they come 
and said he was a pioneer, ’n’ he’d orter do it. An’ he 
wanted to so much himself. They wanted to know ef he 
didn’t hev’ a coonskin cap ’n’ moccasins. 'Land!’ says 
I, 'of course he has. He wears ’em all th’ time when he’s 
huntin’.’ Don’t that jest bang everything ye ever heerd, 


140 


NATHAN BURKE 


Nat ? Tears to me they’ve gone clean crazy. I’d ’a’ put 
a nice white biled shirt ’n’ a pair o’ boots on him, but they 
won’t hev’ it. An’ all he’s got to do is jest set in th’ cabin 
door, an’ hev’ folks look at him. I don’t like it overly well. 
I don’t want Pap made no show of. But he likes it — he 
— I reckon you don’t see nothin’ diff’rent ’bout Pap from 
what he useter be, do yeh, Nat?” she asked, her dark eyes 
searching the other’s face. In sheer humanity Burke had to 
assure her that Darnell was as whole as ever, unchanged. 

When the great day at last arrived, being ushered in with 
that terrific patriotic din and discord which greets all our 
national anniversaries, blowing of whistles, letting off of 
firearms, whang-banging of drums, tin pans, or whatever 
came handiest, a large number of virtuous citizens, like Mr. 
Burke, who had hoped to celebrate the holiday by sleeping 
later than usual, were balked of that desire, and got up and 
dressed in a not at all Harrisonian frame of mind. Nat 
sauntered about the streets all morning, until sauntering 
became an impossibility, so closely packed as they were with 
the twenty thousand odd visitors; he dodged, edged, and 
elbowed through into the vicinity of Ducey & Co., where 
the lower doors and windows were securely shut and locked, 
as he saw; and looking up, beheld the second-story likewise 
shut and apparently tenantless; he said to himself that Mrs. 
Ducey must have carried out her plan in spite of opposition 
and smiled a little doubtfully. Standing on the curb, he 
looked towards the State-house yard, and saw every part 
of the half-finished foundation and the board fence which 
enclosed the whole jammed with people “hanging on by 
their eye-teeth,” as one of his fellow-clerks, whom he at that 
moment encountered, vividly described it. The roofs, 
even the gutters, the front stoops, and balconies, some of them 
none too stable, of every building as far as he could see either 
way were being utilized as gallery-seats. High Street seemed 
to have been cleared for the procession, but there were farm- 
wagons here and there drawn alongside the foot-walk, filled 
with chairs, and the fortunate owners thereof were handing 
about cider, doughnuts, pickles, and other light refreshments 
amongst themselves and picnicing with immense enjoy¬ 
ment. The horses had all been taken out of these vehicles, 


LOG-CABINS-AND-HARD-CIDER 


141 


Nathan noted and thought of the Duceys again. Hundreds 
of people who could not be accommodated were standing 
as they had stood for hours, in the mud, under the open sky, 
with the greatest patience and good-humor. Nat and the 
other clerk, whose name was Harry Kellar, I remember, got 
across the street somehow, and wormed through the crowd 
eastward as far as Third Street, where it thinned out a little, 
and walked down to Long and so back to High again. And 
here Kellar, who was an adventurous youth, clambered over 
an area-railing and gained a window-ledge where, clinging 
like ivy on the wall, he proclaimed the outlook superb. 
“Come on up, Nat, you can see all over!” The latter, how¬ 
ever, had already contracted for a seat with a speculator 
who had arranged a board across from one pair of steps to 
another, ingeniously wedging between the mighty mud- 
scrapers which invariably adorned every front entrance in 
those days; and Burke, having established himself thereon, 
took the speculator — who was in the neighborhood of eleven 
years old, an energetic, freckled youngster — on his knees, 
so that the rest of the room could be let out to a gaunt, 
sallow young man, Mr. James Sharpless, in fact — Nat 
knew him at once in his worn, old coat. Observing him to 
take off his hat, with his curiously brilliant smile, to some 
acquaintance in the street, Burke followed the gesture and 
saw it was addressed to a high, shining buggy drawn up, with 
empty shafts, by the pavement close at hand; the man in 
it Nathan knew by sight; there was also a very pretty girl 
with auburn hair under a fashionable little bonnet. 

“Look out, mister, here they come!” shrilled the boy in 
his lap. Both of the young men scrambled upright on their 
precarious perch, and Sharpless, nodding across at the other, 
said, “ Give the little fellow a hand up and he can sit on our 
shoulders,” which was done accordingly. They were com¬ 
ing, sure enough. A distant martial blare announced it; 
the “Hero of Tippecanoe” was being sung and trumpeted 
with tremendous vigor; hats went in the air; there was 
cheering. Presently Nat’s friend, the eagle, came borne 
aloft, grim and obdurate. Then a band. A military com¬ 
pany from Zanesville. Another band. A handsome white 
horse with a saddle and housings of red velvet fringed with 
silver, led by a groom in buff-and-blue livery. 


142 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Looky, looky ! That’s Washington’s horse — George 
Washington’s horse !” screamed the urchin on their shoul¬ 
ders, drumming with his heels on Burke’s chest. 

“How remarkably well preserved!” ejaculated Sharpless. 
“And doesn’t it look like Jabez Cushman’s horse that he 
lends for all the Mason’s funerals, though!” 

“That ain’t Washington’s horse , mister,” said a man in 
front of them, pityingly; “it’s just Washington’s saddle. 
They sent down to Marietta for it; it belongs to somebody 
down there —kind of an heirloom, I guess. But Washing¬ 
ton , you know, why, he died before I was born. And a 
horse , why, a horse don’t live as long as a man. You see that 
couldn’t be Washington’s horse.” 

“Dear me, you don’t say! I — I wish you’d repeat that 
statement, please,” said Sharpless, anxiously, feeling for 
and bringing out a note-book and pencil; “that’s not Wash¬ 
ington’s saddle, you say? It’s Washington’s horse — I’d 
like to get this straight if you don’t mind — I write for the 
paper — Washington’s horse” 

“No, no, I say ’tain’t Washington’s horse, it’s Washington’s 
saddle.” 

“ Hey ? Did you say horse or saddle ? ” shouted Sharpless, 
elevating his voice above the roar of an approaching band. 

“No ! Saddle — Washington’s Saddle !” 

“I know it’s a saddle. I say Who’s Saddle?” 

“Washing —Aw, think you’re smart, don’t you?” 

The band — it was the band of the Harrison Guards — 
drowned out this lively argument; the Guards, augmented, 
no doubt, by any number of young gentlemen in respectable 
society, drew near, passed, went on. “They’d orter space 
them bands further apart,” said a woman bystander; “the 
tunes git all mixed up. Good land o’ love! Look at th’ 
wagon with a lot of dirt ’n’ stones on it, ’n’ a man with a plough 
’n’ a horse harnessed up. See th’ man, Bennie? See horsey! 
Look at th’ horsey! Who is it, anyhow, d’ye s’pose?” 

Another spectator volunteered the information that it 
was the Farmer of North Bend; it had a label on it to 
that effect. “Why, that ain’t him, is it? Harrison, I 
mean?” she asked in tones of awe. Her neighbor guessed 
not; he guessed it was just some fellow dressed up to look 
like Harrison. 


LOG-CABINS-AND-HARD-CIDER 


143 


“Oh-oh-ee! Looky, looky! Look what’s coming!” 
shrieked the look-out, ecstatically; “it’s a ship, it’s a ship!” 

“See here, you want to hold still, son,” Sharpless cautioned 
him, trying to gather the lad’s legs into his grasp. “By 
George, you’ve got as many feet as a centipede — I never 
saw a boy with so many feet!” 

“Look at the ship ! And look at the big boat behind with 
the band in, and — oh, cricky, watch those horses!” 

The Cuyahoga brig, in fact, was passing at this moment, 
full-rigged, shaking to the top of its masts with every move¬ 
ment of its platform, with a crew who, in manner at least, 
fully carried out the landsman’s conception of Jack ashore; 
more than half of them were gloriously drunk, and getting 
drunker. On the next float was a band in a canoe filled 
with “pioneers,” with an Indian in full war-panoply at the 
stem — a fearsome figure. “Is it a real Injun, do you 
guess?” asked the woman. The man didn’t know; he sus- 
picioned it might be; it was making enough noise for a dozen 
Injuns, anyhow. Which was quite true, as the Indian’s 
standard of histrionic realism required him to emit a terrify¬ 
ing whoop from time to time, and brandish his tomahawk 
in a murderous style. 

“There’s houses coming — little houses with chimnies, an’ 
a man with a gun setting right in the door!” announced the 
boy, gleefully — and again: “Oh, cricky!” he screamed; 
“see those horses!” 

Nathan looked. “Here, get down, boy!” he said, and 
shifted the youngster bodily to the plank, and jumped down 
himself, and started for the street. He had almost to fight 
his way through. 

The horses drawing some of the floats had not been be¬ 
having well, although they seemed to be for the most part 
sedate beasts, and had probably been in training for the day. 
But it was not in horse flesh-and-blood to accept the racket 
peaceably; the canoe-driver just passed by was having 
trouble with his team; and out of the corner of his eye Nat 
saw the pole-horse of the float carrying Darnell’s cabin 
plunging and backing. It was a sorrel with white fore legs. 
The band was playing “Old Rosin-the-Bow.” 

At the first, Burke was not thinking at all about the floats, 
but of the Ducey carriage and black and bay pair of horses 


144 


NATHAN BURKE 


he had so often driven. He could not tell how long they had 
been there at the corner, but it could not have been from 
the first, or he would have seen them before this. 1 The 
scared people were crowding back in every direction, shout¬ 
ing and screaming. In the carriage were Mrs. Ducey and 
Francie, and two or three others, ladies, children — I can¬ 
not remember who. Ducey was not with them; it was 
George driving. Everything happened quickly — almost 
at once. Burke got through the crowd somehow, and ran 
up and seized hold of the bridle of the bay, and tried to force 
them back and to one side; he spoke to them; the horses 
were both quite frantic, rearing, a whirl of flying hoofs. 
He heard Francie or some one in the carriage scream out: 
“Nathan, Nathan! Oh, he’ll be killed, he’ll be killed!” 
George Ducey was standing up in the front seat, clutching 
the reins and slashing the horses across the back with a whip, 
and crying out in a wild way; I believe he was beside himself 
with fright, and did not know what he was doing. The 
driver of the log-cabin float, struggling with his own scared 
team, bawled furiously: “God damn you, drop that whip, 
you damn fool! Somebody hit him over the head, will 
you—!” and more oaths. The float was almost on us. 

Nat saw Darnell’s face in the cabin-door above him, 
vacantly smiling. “Get back, Jake, for God’s sake, get 
back!” he cried and clung desperately to the bridles. 
George — I think it was George — all at once gave a horrible 
kind of screech, and threw the reins aside, and plunged over 
the wheels into the crowd. The flying buckle of the reins 
struck Nathan on the forehead and cut to the bone and the 
blood ran down. It blinded him for a second; I do not know 
whether the pole of the carriage struck Darnell first, or the 
horses’ hoofs — maybe it was both together. He was flung 
from his place and down into the mud, and tried to rise; 
and went down again, and the hind wheels of the float went 
over him — over his neck. He was dead before any of us 
got to him. 

1 According to the coroner’s report, the carriage had been standing 
around the corner on the other street from the beginning. It was the 
backing or lunging of the horses that brought it into Burke’s view; 
for further particulars of this distressing accident the reader is referred 
to the Ohio State Journal for February 23-25, 1840. — M. S. W. 


CHAPTER XI 


In which Nance begins the World 

When this thing happened, there arose from the crowd 
a dreadful shuddering groan, and a scream here and there. 
The procession was still coming on, the bands blaring and 
people cheering up the street. It halted, recoiling on itself, 
in a moment; but I dare say there were hundreds who did 
not know until the next day, perhaps, when the papers came 
out, what it was that had blocked the way. Nathan who 
was a little dazed, clutching at the horses' bits, all at once 
found that they were standing quite still, trembling and 
glaring; and a dozen men were at the traces. The Indian 
who had been war-whooping in the stern of the canoe 
jumped down and came running up to us: “What is it? 
Was that fellow hurt?" he panted. And then looking down 
— “My God!" he said. Some men were lifting up Darnell's 
body. “Bring a shutter here, some of you!" the Indian 
shouted. He was very active and helpful — I never found 
out his name. Mrs. Ducey stood up in the carriage and 
called, “George! George!" looking wildly around. Nat 
felt some one take him by the arm and draw him aside while 
the horses were being led away; one of them had a bad gash 
in the near fore leg; the pole of the carriage was broken 
squarely off. “You're hurt — bleeding," said somebody; 
“where's your handkerchief?" Burke stared at him — 
“Speaking to me?" he said vacantly, and the other repeated 
gently, “You're hurt — your forehead's cut open — I'll 
bind it up if you'll give me your handkerchief — or maybe 
we can get a rag somewhere — " Nat mechanically brought 
out his handkerchief and held it to his forehead. “Oh, 
damn this blood!" he said, as it persistently welled from the 
cut, in a sudden burst of unreasoning anger; he was a good 
deal shaken by what he had seen. His friend — it was 
Sharpless — went to the carriage, where Mrs. Ducey was still 
standing up and calling her son. “George is right over 
here, Mrs. Ducey," he said; “he's sick — sick at his stomach, 
l 145 


146 


NATHAN BURKE 


but he’s not hurt — just frightened. He’ll be here in a 
minute. There’s somebody gone for your husband. Hasn’t 
the young lady — Miss Blake, isn’t it ? —hasn’t she fainted ?” 
She had indeed and lay senseless across the laps of the scared 
women. Sharpless got up on the carriage-wheel, and 
shouted over the people’s heads: “Vardaman! John!” 
he shouted; “let the doctor through here, won’t you?” 
And the doctor, whom Nathan remembered seeing sitting in 
his buggy with the pretty red-haired girl, finally struggled 
through the crowd, without any hat and his coat torn. 

They had wrenched a door from its hinges, and laid 
Darnell on it, and Nance was kneeling by it in the mud. 
She looked in Vardaman’s face as the doctor stooped over, 
feeling and listening; then took off the red shawl she was 
wearing about her shoulders and spread it over her father’s 
face, and stood up, and some of the men uncovered their 
heads. Nance did not shed a tear; Mrs. Williams, who was 
with her, was wailing hysterically, and some of the other 
women, I believe. The doctor spoke in a low voice, and 
Darnell’s body was lifted up again and carried into one of the 
houses — a tailor’s shop at the corner. By this time a con¬ 
stable or two had come up, and they cleared the way for the 
bearers. And presently the procession moved on once more; 
there had been hurrahing and music somewhere all the time. 

“What’s your name, young man?” one of the policemen 
said to Nathan; “ I’m taking ’em for the coroner, you know,” 
he added in explanation, and entered it in his note-book. 
“Nathan Burke? All right. And what’s yours? I mean 
you, young fellow. You got the doctor, didn’t you?” 

“My name’s Sharpless, and I didn’t do anything — but 
I saw it all if it’s witnesses you want. James Sharpless,” 
repeated the latter hastily, as he passed them with a tumbler 
of water that he had got from Heaven knows where; he got 
up on the carriage-step to give it to Francie. Other men 
were helping the ladies out of the dismantled vehicle; the 
children were crying dismally; Mr. Ducey had come; and 
Nat saw the constable interrogating George in another mo¬ 
ment. 

“I didn’t do it, ’twasn’t my fault — was it my fault, Ma? ” 
George cried over and over again. He mopped his pale face; 
he trembled as with an ague; his eyes roved. George had 


NANCE BEGINS THE WORLD 


147 


grown up into a tall, slim boy lately; he was not strong 
and at the instant looked curiously like a palsied old man. 
“The horses pulled the reins right out of my hands — I 
couldn't hold ’em — nobody could have held ’em — no¬ 
body, I tell you. The band scared them, or I could have 
held them. There was a man hanging on to their heads, 
and I couldn’t do anything with ’em as long as he held on. 
That’s what scared ’em. It was his fault. They got 
frightened when they saw the cabin coming — that’s what 
frightened ’em. That man sitting in the cabin-door he did 
something that scared ’em — I don’t know what — but it 
was all his fault — you couldn’t do anything with the horses. 
It wasn’t my fault — you can’t blame me — I didn’t do 
anything—” 

“Lord love you, who’s saying you did? I ain’t asking 
for anything but your name,” said the constable, impa¬ 
tiently. “So scairt you can’t tell your own name?” 

“I’m not scared — I’m not scared — I — I — my name’s 
Ducey. But you can’t put me in jail, you know — it wasn’t 
my fault —” 

“I ain’t going to jail you. We don’t jail people for being 
scared to death,” said the constable, wetting his pencil. 

“I wasn’t scared, I tell you — the horses pulled the reins 
right out of my hand — why, everybody saw ’em pull the 
reins out of my hand. Ma, didn’t you see ’em ? I wasn’t a 
bit scared —” 

“Get him some whiskey, can’t you? Anybody got a 
flask?” said the constable, looking around. Burke had al¬ 
ready had the offer of a dozen. “Boy’ll have a fit if we don’t 
look out,” remarked the officer. “Mr. Ducey, is that you ? 
That your son ? Did you see — ? Hey ? Oh, you weren’t 
here ? I’m sorry, I’ll have to call your wife and them other 
ladies, too, I guess, they was all witnesses.” 

“George, George, come here with us,” Mrs. Ducey cried 
out. “Francie, can you walk, dearie? Oh, William, what 
shall we do?” 

“Is Nathan killed?” said Francie, sitting up with a gray 
face. “Was Nathan killed?” 

“Here he is, here he is,” said Sharpless, pushing him for¬ 
ward. And Nat went up to the carriage and took her 
clammy, little, shaking hand in his. “Why, Francie—” 


148 


NATHAN BURKE 


he began, with a rather ghastly smile, I am afraid. She 
burst out crying in a wild fashion. 

“She’ll be all right now. Only get out of this as quick 
as you can,” said the doctor. He had come out of the shop, 
and been talking to the constable. Somebody brought him 
his hat, crushed in at the side. 

“That poor girl — that poor, pretty, young thing, Doctor, 
is she in there? It was her father, wasn’t it?” cried Mrs. 
Ducey. “Oh, I’m so sorry — so sorry!” The tears ran 
down her cheeks. “I’m going in to see her — let me go in 
to see her — William, how can you ? I want to see her !” 

“Better not, Mrs. Ducey, I think,” said Vardaman, 
kindly; “you can’t do any good, you know. The man is 
dead — killed instantly, I believe — at least I hope so.” 

“Oh, I don’t believe it — he can’t be dead — he’s just 
unconscious. I can bring him to — I’m sure I can. He 
wasn’t under the wheel, was he? It just slipped — and — 
and bruised him, didn’t it? I know a splendid liniment —” 

“There’s nothing to be done, Mrs. Ducey,” said the doctor, 
patiently. “I know this is distressing to you, and you want 
to help all you can, but he’s beyond help from any of us.” 

“Well, but I want to talk to that poor girl — what do you 
men know about it? I want to see her.” 

“I know her, Mrs. Ducey,” interposed Nathan; “I know 
her — I’ll take a message to her. But let her alone right 
now. I’ll see to her. Hadn’t you better get Francie home ? ” 

She looked at him almost blankly. “ Oh, it’s Nathan Burke 
— I didn’t know you at first. What’s the matter with your 
your head? Were you hurt, too ?” 

“Nothing, I cut it,” Nat told her; “you ought to go home 
now —” 

“No, no — I want to speak to that poor girl first — I 
want to take her home — William, we must take her home 
with us —” 

“She won’t leave her father — and she’s with people she 
knows — friends,” said Nathan, soothingly; “you’re a 
stranger, you know, Mrs. Ducey—” 

“Do come home, Anne,” said Ducey, nervously. 

“I’ll see about Nance — I’ll take care of her,” Burke re¬ 
iterated; “look at George. He’ll be sick if you don’t take 
him away from here —” 


NANCE BEGINS THE WORLD 


149 


“That blood on your head is disgusting,” said George, 
faintly. “Why don’t you tie it up so it won’t show?” 

And in the meanwhile we had been urging them all stead¬ 
ily away from the spot, Mrs. Ducey moving readily enough 
when told that George needed it. Sharpless and the doctor 
had Francie between them. Nathan carried in his arms a 
stout little boy of five or six who roared with terror, and 
partly also with rage at being thus forcibly deported, half 
the way home; I hardly know how we got there at last. 
Mr. Marsh, to whom somebody had taken word, came hurry¬ 
ing up just as we reached the house. 

“You’ll tell that poor girl I want to see her? You’ll tell 
her, Nathan?” said Mrs. Ducey, earnestly, as they parted. 
Nathan promised that he would. He thought that her im¬ 
pulsive sympathy, if it did not wear itself out before she saw 
Nance, might, perhaps, comfort the girl; Mrs. Ducey’s 
kindness was as domineering as all her other traits of char¬ 
acter; she could be unreasonably and masterfully tender; 
but that might be what Nance needed, for all Nat could tell. 

“You’d better come around to my office and let me see 
that head, sir,” said the doctor; “you’ve got a pretty nasty¬ 
looking cut there. Come this evening. I don’t think you 
could get to it now.” As he hurried off, Nathan heard him 
say to Sharpless with a concerned look, “I left Louise — 
Miss Gwynne, I mean, sitting in the buggy all by herself 
— I couldn’t very well help it.” 

This, as nearly as I remember it, was the exact order of 
events on that melancholy Washington’s Birthday forty 
years ago. Yet I have a much more vivid and detailed 
recollection of it than I have been able to put on paper some¬ 
how; it was a task from which flesh and spirit recoiled. 
Burke was not an emotional nor imaginative man, but for 
a long while afterwards he saw in dreams — waking drenched 
in horror — a Juggernaut car, monstrous, inexorably im¬ 
pelled, crushing out a life at his feet. Darnell had been 
sitting, cross-legged, on a but-end of log within the door with 
his gun and (alas!) his whiskey bottle between his knees, 
just as Nathan remembered him hundreds of times by their 
evening camp-fires. A lump came into the young man’s 
throat as he thought of it. Perhaps Jake’s sorry life deserved 


150 


NATHAN BURKE 


as sorry an end; but the miserable fitness of it stung one with 
a deeper pity. I have known in my life worse men than 
Jake Darnell, who did not have half his faults. And if he 
did not walk so well as he might, even by his feeble taper — 
my friends, which of us goes without stumbling ? 

Nathan, with his head already swollen and throbbing fa¬ 
mously, went back to the tailor’s shop and found two or three 
men in charge, homely Samaritans. They had the body 
decently disposed on one of the tailor’s benches, until a 
coffin should be got ready, which, of course, could not be 
done until the next day, the town being in such festivity. 
“You couldn’t git a carpenter, fer love ner money, y’know — 
’specially fer to make a coffin,” one of them explained to 
Burke. “Well, I dunno as there’s anybody kin afford to wait 
better’n a dead person,” he added with a meditative glance 
at the shrouded figure on the bench. “Hev’ a drink, mis¬ 
ter ? ” And Nat declining, he took one himself and wiped his 
mouth on the back of his hand as he set the jug down. The 
watchers were philosophic souls; they had a table spread and 
a bottle or two and a greasy pack of cards in the back part 
of the establishment, and proposed to make a comfortable 
night of it. The short February afternoon was already clos¬ 
ing in, and the procession was at last over; the hurrahing 
was over; the crowds were dissolving; Nat felt as if he had 
lived an age since morning. Asking for Nance, he heard with 
relief that the tailor’s wife had taken her under protection, 
when the Williams family were obliged to start home. And 
the tailor — they were Germans by the name of Lauterbach 
— living over his shop, Burke went upstairs and found the 
family, kind, slatternly people, the tailor a shrivelled, 
meagre man and his wife very fat and sentimental, weep- 
ingly pressing a glass of beer on Nance as the girl sat upright 
in a corner. 

“ Ach, so haf she set — so she haf been since —” said the 
tailoress, making an expressive gesture with her inverted 
thumb to the floor below. “ You also haf a hurt by your head 
got?” Nathan went and sat down by Nance and took her 
passive hand. She looked at him with her big black eyes, 
and the young man was struck as often before by something 
inscrutable in their glance or in the girl herself; she might 
have been a young sphinx in her corner, grave and tranquil. 


NANCE BEGINS THE WORLD 


151 


There was a kind of pagan serenity in her self-control, a 
resignation not expressed by any creed. 

“It’s all right, Nat/’ she said quite composedly; “I don’t 
feel like cryin’ ’bout Pap. I reckon he’d lived his time. I 
jest want to set still an’ think about him.” 

“I wish he could have died some other way, Nance,” said 
Burke. The commonplaces of condolence did not come flu¬ 
ently to him; he was more moved by horror and compassion 
than by sorrow for the dead man, and, whether kindly or 
not, could say no more than he felt. “You — you didn’t 
see it, did you ? ” 

She said no, not all of it. She had seen her father fall, 
but not — not the rest; and she asked with a painful ear¬ 
nestness if he thought Darnell had suffered. 

“The doctor said not,” Nat told her, and seeing relief in 
her face, went on. “He said he must have died instantly. 
I — I don’t believe he even knew he was in danger, Nance,” 
said the young fellow, not realizing until the words were out 
that he was bunglingly revealing a conviction he had meant 
in humanity to keep to himself. 

“Yes. I know. Pap was drunk,” Nance assented. “I 
couldn’t keep him from it, ye know.” 

“I — I didn’t mean —” 

“Never mind, Nat,” she said gently, “I knew you knew. 
’Twan’t no use tryin’ to hide it. We’ve all got to git up an’ 
tell what we know at th’ inquest, ain’t we ? Truth can’t 
hurt Pap now; nor it couldn’t while he was alive even. 
Truth’s truth. ’Tain’t noways so shameful a man sh’d 
drink, anyhow. But if ’twas, th’ shame’s in doin’ th’ thing 
— ’tain’t in havin’ folks know ’bout it, seems to me.” And 
with this piece of sound philosophy, she fell silent again, 
brooding. 

“ I want him buried with his ol’ rifle — they’s a corner in 
th’ cabin-lot at home that he’d like, I know,” she said after 
a while in answer to a question; “mebbe ’tain’t Christian, 
but I kinder ’low Pap would lay easier with that rifle — like 
Injuns do, ye know, Nathan. I ain’t hardly ever seen Pap 
without his gun — seems to be a part of him, somehow. I — 
I reckon ye kin make th’ city-folks understan’ that, can’t 
ye ? An’ he wouldn’t want to be in no spruced-up grave¬ 
yard, ye know; he’d ruther layout in th’ woods, like he lived.” 


152 


NATHAN BURKE 


Burke understood her feeling ; to him, too, it seemed as if 
the old backwoodsman would be better, even in death, re¬ 
moved from the settlements which in life he had shunned or 
visited only to his undoing. Nat undertook to make all 
these arrangements. “TIT folks here are mighty kind — 
mighty kind and good,” Nance said with a weary glance at 
the half-closed door, where two or three of the Lauterbach 
youngsters were peeping through a crack at us. Mrs. 
Lauterbach had shooed them all out of the room, together 
with herself and the tailor, in deference to the mourners’ 
conference. “They’re jest as kind as they know how — but 
they don’t know much,” said the girl. And then she asked 
with some appearance of interest: “Nathan, that was that 
little skunk of a George Ducey drivin’ that carriage, wasn’t 
it ? Th’ one you brought out home one time, tryin’ to learn 
him to shoot, don’t you rec’lect ? I was sure I knowed him — 
I didn’t see none of th’ others — they was wimmen ’n’ 
children, wasn’t they?” 

“Yes, that was George. But he’s not — that is, he’s noth¬ 
ing but a boy, and he was frightened, you know, Nance — 
he didn’t know what he was doing,” Nat explained, noting 
with surprise the scorn in her tone. 

Nance shook her head. “Don’t know why you stand up 
fer him,” she said. “That boy ain’t got any grit, Nat — 
you know it. Ef it had ’a’ been his own mother settin’ in 
Pap’s place, he’d acted jest th’ same. He ain’t got any grit, 
an’ he ain’t got any too much sense, either. You kin git 
along ’thout grit, Pap useter say, an’ you kin git along ’thout 
sense, but ye can’t git along ’thout ary one or t’other of ’em. 
Pap never took no stock in that boy — my, I remember 
him laughin’ fit to kill himself over you tryin’ an’ tryin’ to 
learn that little George how to shoot. An’ to think that very 
boy sh’d be th’ one to kinder help along Pap’s dyin’ in th’ 
end.” A passing wonder at this uncalled-for and gratuitous 
irony of fortune showed in her face. 

Nathan could not deny the charge. If George had kept 
his head, the tragedy might not have occurred. Yet, in fair¬ 
ness, the boy could not be blamed. Nor, for that matter, 
did Nance seem disposed to blame him overmuch; she recog¬ 
nized her own responsibility. There was a sanity and bal¬ 
ance about the girl, even in a calamity whose horrid circum- 


NANCE BEGINS THE WORLD 


153 


stances might well have undermined her, that commanded 
respect. Not stoicism but a brave reasonableness governed 
her. Only once did she flash into one of those unaccountable 
outbursts which Nathan remembered so well; it was when he 
told her about Mrs. Ducey. 

“ Did she say that, Nat ? Did she, did she ? ” Nance cried 
out. The color flared in her white face; her eyes burned with 
that curious reverence, that very slavery of admiration which 
Mrs. Ducey — or whatever extraordinary character Mrs. 
Ducey assumed in Nance's own transfiguring vision — always 
aroused in her. “Did she really an' truly want to come an’ 
see me, Nat ? Did she want to take me to her home ?" She 
gazed at him, with parted lips, ecstatically. 

“ Yes, but we — I — I wouldn't let her, you know, Nance," 
said Nathan, guiltily, feeling that he had made a mistake. 
“I thought maybe you wouldn't—" 

“Oh, Nathan, I'd do anything for her, I’d go anywhere 
she said!" 

The tailor's wife let Nat out, and lighted him down the 
rickety stair, wiping her lips, with a baby grasping a half- 
eaten sausage over her fat shoulder; and with many sympa¬ 
thetic sighs and ejaculations about “Du lieber Gott," and 
the “schone madchen" — “you are — vot it iss you say ? — 
versprecht, hein ? to be married, so?" she asked eagerly. 
And Mr. Burke, who knew — and knows — no German, had 
some trouble to make her understand that such was not the 
case; he left her benevolently smiling, still unconvinced. 

To tell the truth, the question of Nance’s future had al¬ 
ready begun to occupy Burke's mind. Darnell's death left 
her absolutely alone in the world; Nat himself knew what 
that solitary estate meant, and he did not need to be told 
how much worse it would be for a woman than for a man. 
He held that he had promised her father to take care of Nance; 
even if he had not, it would be the least he could do for the 
sake of auld lang syne and the countless good turns poor old 
Jake had done him. The most acceptable solution was prob¬ 
ably the one she herself would furnish; to go back to the 
country and the farm where her father had squatted and 
built, and live there — and doubtless, Nathan reflected, 
speedily marry some young man of the neighborhood. Or, 


154 


NATHAN BURKE 


perhaps, to take refuge with the Williamses or any other fam¬ 
ily thereabouts, a thing which was often done, but did not 
seem practicable somehow with a girl of Nance’s tempera¬ 
ment, any more than going out to service here in town, 
another alternative which occurred to Nathan. This was 
no time, with her father still lying unburied, to talk to her 
about ways and means, however — let to-morrow, for the 
moment, at least, take care of itself, he thought. 

The streets were still crowded with people, the taverns 
receiving and discharging scores of patrons, the bands going 
full-blast in the State-house yard, turn by turn. Nat 
stalked through the riot with his aching head, and if he had 
been given to moralizing, might, I daresay, have delivered a 
very pretty sermon on the hideous shifts and contrasts of 
human life — something which, in fact, the Reverend Mr. 
Sharpless did that ensuing Sunday, and greatly edified his 
large congregation, a few of whom had been witnesses to the 
awful occurrence which he used in illustration. There was a 
light in the doctor’s office, which one reached by a stair cling¬ 
ing to the outside of a frame building that stood about mid¬ 
way of the square between High and Third; there was a 
grocery store in the lower story, I remember — it’s all gone 
long ago, and a theatre has been built over the place. Burke, 
who was in pretty stout health all his younger days, had 
never had occasion to visit a physician before; he mounted 
the stair and found Vardaman sitting rather gloomily, with 
folded arms, in the bare little room, enveloped in clouds of 
tobacco-smoke. He knocked out his pipe — which was an 
odd and beautiful foreign-looking instrument of a delicate 
ivory color with a female head and bust elaborately executed 
thereon, the first meerschaum, in fact, which Burke had ever 
seen, and he eyed it with corresponding interest — the 
doctor knocked out his pipe with hardly a word and began 
operations. 

“It will make a slight scar — we let it go a little too long,” 
he said after he had set in a stitch or two, and washed and 
bound up the wound, “ however, that won’t spoil your beauty 
much —you’re lucky to get off so easily. A little more 
towards the temple and I fear, sir, there would have been a 
dead ? ” he paused in the act of drying his hands on a very 
large, clean, white towel, and surveyed Nathan keenly 


NANCE BEGINS THE WORLD 


155 


and rather whimsically —“a dead lawyer? a dead 
doctor — ?” 

“Neither one — a dead bookkeeper,” said Nat, grinning; 
“an accountant with Mr. Marsh — I mean with Ducey & 
Company —” he added hastily. 

The doctor, who was a man some six or eight years Burke’s 
senior, with a lean, harsh-featured face, eyed him again, “I 
thought I remembered seeing you before somewhere,” he said; 
“it must have been at Mr. Marsh’s — at Ducey & Com¬ 
pany’s, I mean, of course,” he finished smoothly, with a 
perfectly grave side-glance. 

“That wasn’t the first time, though, Doctor Vardaman,” 
said Burke, biting back a smile. 

“Not the first time ?” 

“I don’t suppose you remember going out in the country 
once five or six years ago to patch up a boy that had fallen 
out of a hay-mow and put his shoulder out of joint?” Nat 
asked him a little shyly. 

Vardaman laid down the pipe, which he had begun to clean 
preparatory to refilling, and looked at his patient, surprised 
and interested. “Why, good Lord, yes, I do — I remember 
it very well now you speak of it. I had forgotten all about 
it, though,” he said frankly. “It was before I went away — 
went to Leipzig to study,” he added, his glance falling on the 
meerschaum as if it served to remind him. “You were one 
of my first cases — I’d only been studying a couple of years 
then.” He went over and felt Nathan’s shoulder critically. 

“It was a good job,” Burke assured him, laughing. And 
as they stood, they heard a foot on the stair, and, without 
any ceremony of knocking, in walked young Sharpless. 
“Hello, Jack, I —” he began, and stopped short upon seeing 
the other. 

“Don’t you know this young man, Jim? I thought you 
knew him,” said the doctor. 

“Oh, yes, we’ve met,” Sharpless said, and with his odd, 
illuminating smile he went up and shook Burke’s hand. 


CHAPTER XII 


The Mail-Bag 

Mrs. William Ducey to 

Mrs. Cornelia Marsh at 

Chenonville, Avoyelles Parish, La. (No date) 

My dearest Mother: 

Well I suppose you have been wondering what has become 
of us all this long while but I have simply been too busy to 
write and then all kinds of things have been happening. At 
first I thought maybe I’d better not tell you for fear of worry¬ 
ing you but that didn’t seem quite right somehow and I 
never did believe in keeping people in ignorance that way 
so I may as well come right out flat and say that we nearly 
had an aweful accident and it’s a blessing and a mercy we 
aren’t all dead this minute. Nobody that is none of the 
family was even scratched though so you must not get 
frightened. 

It was on Washington’s Birthday when we all went to see 
the Log-Cabin parade they gave here in the grand Whig 
Rally, you know. They’ve had them all over the country 
so I suppose maybe you had one too. You never saw any¬ 
thing like this town for the whole week before crowded to the 
very roofs and some people they say sleeping in the streets 
all night. 

When we first heard about the procession I wanted to go 
down and look at it from the room over the store but Uncle 
George was so disagreeable and plainly didn’t want us there 
that I quietly gave it up without having any fuss with him 
of course nor any argument. Uncle George is really getting 
to be a very old man and never was easy to get along with as 
you knoAV. I can tell by the way William acts that he leads 
them a life at the store and William simply will not assert 
himself he has such an idea of being respectful to Uncle 
George. He can’t get over the feeling that he is under obli¬ 
gations to Uncle George when goodness knows there’s not 

156 


THE MAIL-BAG 


157 


another man in the world who would put up with poor old 
Uncle George a minute. And as to obligations it seems to me 
Uncle George owes us something for the way he treated you 
when Pa died. I have heard you say though that it was 
always dreadfully hard for Pa to stand him so you can imag¬ 
ine what it’s like now and especially as his age is making 
Uncle George more cantankerous than ever. 

However as I say I didn’t have any words with him it’s 
so much better to be calm and firm and not squabble. I just 
made up my mind to take our party in the carriage and drive 
down to the corner of Long and High and see the procession 
from the carriage. Just to show you how contrary Uncle 
George has grown to be the minute he heard about it he began 
to grumble again! The trouble with him was he had gotten 
it into his head that we oughtn’t to see it at all on account of 
the crowds or something and I suppose there were some dis¬ 
reputable people among them but what difference did that 
make to us ? But nothing would have satisfied him but for 
me to say Well we’ll stay at home. I just went on and made 
arrangements without bothering about him any more. Nina 
Clarke was staying here, and I invited Mrs. Hunter and 
Jennie she’s just Francie’s age and they are the greatest 
friends and that with Nina and myself just filled the carriage 
with George driving because of course we didn’t want to 
give up a seat to Joseph the hired man you know he’s not a 
very good driver anyhow and George is splendid the best I 
ever saw. He understands horses thoroughly and isn’t 
afraid of anything don’t you remember how wonderfully he 
used to ride his little pony ? William went up to the Neil 
House with a party of friends. He would have come with us 
but those were some men he had to entertain the town has 
been full of visitors. We drove down to the corner and there 
was a perfect jam. The other people in carriages had had 
their horses taken out but I knew ours were safe only I think 
Joseph must have fed them something that morning that 
disagreed with them and made them fractious George says 
he is sure of it because they began to prance the minute they 
heard the first band. And then ever so many people were 
yelling and waving their hats and handkerchiefs right under 
our horses’ noses wouldn’t you think they might have had 
better sense because the people standing around so close were 


158 


NATHAN BURKE 


in much more danger from the horses than we were whenever 
they began to cut up. Anyway in about ten minutes there 
came along one of those huge floats with a boat on it life-size 
full of men and behind it another with a brass band playing 
like fury and then one of the Log-Cabins on a float all to 
itself. And when the horses saw that they just stood right 
straight up on their hind legs! Georgie was as cool and col¬ 
lected as could be he told me afterwards his heart didn’t 
even go one beat faster I tell you mine did. He just stood 
up and took the whip to them and called out in an encourage- 
ing and soothing voice but the people were screaming so I 
suppose the horses couldn’t hear him. And then while they 
were prancing and before he could get them quieted along 
came the Log-Cabin float and an old drunken man sitting in 
the doorway and I suppose he got frightened seeing the horses 
so close and he fell right out and rolled under the wheels and 
broke his neck wasn’t it awful ? 

I kind of feel as if it were partly our fault because of course 
it was our horses but William says for me not to worry. I 
couldn’t have helped it. And I am sure we all did our best. 
The reins got jerked out of George’s hands somehow and he 
had to jump out and was going to run up and grab the horses’ 
bits but before he could get there it was all over and the man 
was killed. George was terribly shocked so he couldn’t get 
out of bed to go and testify before the coroner the next day 
but they came and took what they call a sworn statement 
from all of us and he told them just how it happened as he 
lay in bed. 

We were all awfully scared and Francie fainted dead away. 
But there were a whole lot of men around in a minute and 
Jim Sharpless and Doctor Vardaman came and helped us out 
and you ought to have seen that smart little Jennie Hunter 
fanning Francie and wetting her forehead and doing every¬ 
thing to bring her around just as capable and managing like 
a little woman! They sent for William and we all got home 
somehow. I’ll never want to see another procession if I 
live to be a hundred. They picked the poor old drunken man 
up and took him away somewhere but Ma you never saw 
anything like the girl that was with him his daughter. She’s 
a perfect beauty tall with one of those rich olive complexions 
and lovely features and great black eyes only about eighteen 


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159 


or nineteen years old I think with the most graceful figure like 
a statue although she hadn’t on a sign of corsets or hoops. 
She looked just like that beautiful steel-engraving of the 
“Gypsy Queen” in the front of that “Flowers-of-Loveliness” 
Annual book William gave me last New Year’s. It’s the book 
with the red cover all over gilt scrolls I have on the centre- 
table in the parlor. I never saw such a magnificent looking 
creature as she was as she stood by her father’s body. I just 
couldn’t get her out of my head I thought about her all night. 
They wouldn’t let me speak to her at the time but I found 
out all about her from Nathan Burke who knows her it 
seems. Her father’s name was Darnell and hers is Nance and 
Nathan told me they were children together up at the farm 
on the Scioto where he comes from. I went down and had a 
talk with Nathan at the store and asked all about her. He 
said her mother died long ago like his own parents and Dar¬ 
nell was very good to him when he was a little fellow he said 
he and Nance were just like brother and sister. She was 
staying with the people where they took her father’s body 
named Lauterbach (Germans) a tailor. So I said Nathan I 
want you to take me straight there now the inquest is over 
before she goes away or they do anything. I want to see 
that poor girl and what is she going to do now her father is 
dead do you know ? He looked worried and said he didn’t 
know and perhaps it would be better to wait until Darnell 
was buried before asking her any questions like that he 
thought she had enough to distress her right now. But I 
said Yes that’s very well meant but it’s a mistaken kindness. 
Our duty is to the living first not to the dead, and after all I 
daresay when she thinks about how drunk he was all the time, 
she feels that his death is maybe the best thing that could 
have happened. The right thing to do would be to find out 
what plans she has made and whether we can help her. He 
said he didn’t think Nance could possibly have made any 
plans yet. Well then I just told him I can help her that very 
way. I’ve had so much experience and I’m very good at 
planning and directing everybody that’s ever known me has 
always noticed it. And I know I could help her. And be¬ 
sides I feel a kind of responsibility about her on account of 
the way her father was killed. It’s a terrible thing for a 
young girl like that to be left alone in the world without any 


160 


NATHAN BURKE 


father or mother because with a girl of her class it's a real mis¬ 
fortune to be so pretty. So he gave in at last and said he sup¬ 
posed women knew more about each other even when they were 
strangers than any man could and so he went with me and left 
me there because he had to go right back to the store. I wish 
you could see Nathan Ma he’s so much improved and talks 
and acts just like a man you know he always was rather an 
old acting boy. William says he’s a very fair clerk and steady 
the way he always used to be. 

Well the Lauterbach place was perfectly awful knee-deep 
in dirt and swarming with children and I had to tell the tailor- 
woman Mrs. Lauterbach to wash off a chair before I could 
sit down on it. But really that poor Darnell girl was just as 
beautiful as ever even in that horrid hole and so sweet when 
I said I don’t see how you can stand this nasty place she said 
They’re very good to me. As if anybody wouldn’t be good 
to her the poor young thing. It was exactly as Nathan said 
she hadn’t an idea in her head about what she was going to 
do next. They are going to bury her father out there in the 
backwoods and she said Nathan had seen to everything and 
would help her take the body out. But when I said Why my 
poor child you haven’t got any mourning have you ? she 
looked kind of bewildered and wanted to know what that was ? 
So I told her she must have some kind of black dress and bon¬ 
net she said Pap likes me in red just as though he were in the 
next room and could see her. I told her I’d get her some black 
things and if they didn’t fit we could alter them afterwards. 
And then I just went on and told her what I’d planned out 
for her. I wanted her to come and live with me and I’d 
teach her to do fine sewing and be upstairs-girl and a sort of 
maid you know Ma and she’d have a good home of course 
not very much wages at first because she would have to be 
taught so much but I know she will learn soon and like it 
and be happy and above all protected. You see Ma I had 
thought it all out and made up my mind before I went to see 
her because I knew she couldn’t possibly do anything that 
would be better and I’m such a judge of girls with all the expe¬ 
rience I’ve had I know a good one when I see one. I’ve always 
had to teach them more or less and sometimes pay them just 
as high wages as if they knew everything but of course Nance 
won’t expect that so that it will be a wise arrangement all 


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around. As soon as I’ve got that frightful glaring red dress 
off of her and put her in a neat black and-white dotted calico 
with an apron and taught her a few things she’ll be the best 
girl we ever had and certainly it will be nice to have some¬ 
body around that is so pretty to look at. The last one had 
just a few old snags of teeth left tho’ she was a young woman 
and was so slatternly. Just now I haven’t anybody but a 
woman who comes in by the day and you know that is always 
so expensive altho’ William never says a word. I wouldn’t 
mind if one could only get a little work out of them but this 
one makes a dreadful fuss every time we have company and 
Francie and I have to make all the beds and do the dusting. 
I shall feel fixed for life when Nance comes she’s just the kind 
to stay with us forever I know she’s so appreciative. When 
I told her the plan the poor thing was so happy and grateful 
it was touching. She kept saying You want me to come and 
live with you You want me to come and live with you over 
and over again and looked at me as if I were an angel from 
Heaven. We settled it right then and there and she is to 
come as soon as her father is buried and she has packed up 
what things she wants from their cabin. I expect she hasn’t 
got a great deal. She doesn’t even know whether the farm 
they lived on was their own her father just squatted there and 
I guess he didn’t do much farming only fished and hunted 
when he was sober enough to. She can read and write she 
says. 

William says it’s a splendid plan but then he hardly ever 
finds fault with any of my plans and you know yourself Ma I 
seldom make mistakes. But what do you think happened? 
I really want to tell you this for it’s a good story and a kind of 
a joke. After supper that evening who should turn up but 
Nathan Burke! And looking very much like a gentleman 
too I told him so because I knew it would please him and he 
colored up like anything so I could see he was perfectly de¬ 
lighted. He had on nice clothes and you know he has rather 
high thin features and always did keep his teeth so clean and 
white and has a clean looking skin. But when I saw him at 
first I was dumbfounded for it hardly seemed possible that 
he could have come to make a call — not that it wouldn’t 
be all right of course but you know one can’t quite forget 
that after all he was our hired man and not so very long ago 

M 


162 


NATHAN BURKE 


either. The minute I saw him I thought Good Gracious he 
can’t have come to see Francie! She’s getting to that age 
and has spindled up like everything this last few months 
you’ll hardly know her. However it seemed Nathan hadn’t 
come to see her altho’ he spoke to her of course when he came 
in but after we sat down he began on me right away without 
any beating about the bush Mrs. Ducey is this true what 
Nance tells me that she is coming here to live? I said Yes. 
Well then he said On what footing ? What will she be ? I 
haven’t been able to make out from what she says ? Why 
Nathan I said it’s just as simple as can be no mystery about it 
at all and I told him the whole thing. He listened without 
once interrupting or saying a solitary word. But after I 
got thro’ he began Ma and he talked and talked! I’m sure I 
never expected to hear him do so much talking. He said he 
was quite certain Nance didn’t understand in the least what 
I wanted of her that she knew nothing whatever about ladies’ 
maids or working out or how people lived in town. And he 
didn’t believe I could train her the way I wanted she wouldn’t 
be a servant and she couldn’t be a companion. He said he 
knew her thoroughly and she wasn’t fitted by nature for any 
such position and the experiment Avouldn’t be fair to either 
one of us. He said You know Mrs. Ducey in everything 
that matters in all the important things you and Nance would 
both do what was right and perhaps sacrifice yourselves and 
your own feelings without a murmur but it’s the little every¬ 
day things that count when people live together in the same 
house and that make life easy or hard. And when you think 
how differently you and Nance have been brought up and 
what different ways you must have of looking at things it’s 
not to be expected that you could get along together. 

Did you ever Ma ? That’s the first time I was ever told 
I had such a disposition I couldn’t get along with anybody. 
And by Nathan too of all people in the world! Of course he 
didn’t say it in so many words but anyone could see that that 
was what he meant. He just judges of course like any other 
man by the times I have to change servants. But anyone 
that lived in my house two weeks would know that that 
wasn’t my fault. It’s these horrid girls we have to employ. 
Anyhow I said to him Well Nathan I never expected to hear 
you preaching at this rate. He said he knew that he took a 


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great deal on himself to interfere but that her father had once 
said something to him about taking care of Nance and he 
could not stand by and see us go into this plan without tell¬ 
ing us what he thought about it and he had talked to Nance 
and tried to persuade her out of it. So then I said Well what 
do you want her to do Nathan let’s hear your plan of course 
it’s a great deal better. He said flat he hadn’t any. I said 
Well it’s a deal easier to tell people what not to do than what 
to do it seems. I’d think up something better for Nance if 
I were in your place before I came here and raised all these 
objections. He said no doubt I was perfectly right never¬ 
theless he thought neither one of us understood what we were 
doing and that he ought to tell us. Why I said Nathan you 
talk as if Nance wasn’t going to be happy here when I’m 
doing everything I can to give her a good home and make 
her happy. He said you know Mrs. Ducey people would 
generally rather be unhappy their own w T ay than happy in 
somebody else’s. 

Well I can’t remember all the argument I’ve only given 
you an outline of it here but I stood firm. I don’t lay claim 
to many virtues but there is one thing I know I’ve got and 
that is strength of character. All our family have that. I know 
when I’m right. So Nathan at last went away and Nance 
is coming just the same. His persistance was so queer I 
couldn’t imagine why he took the whole business so much to 
heart but when Georgie heard about it he put his finger right 
on the root of it at once. You know he is very quick and 
sometimes alarms me with his keen judgments I think it’s a 
little unnatural at his age. He said Why I shouldn’t wonder 
if Nathan was in love with that Darnell girl and he don’t 
like to think of her being our servant tho’ he was himself. 
That would be just like him. Why I said of course I don’t 
know why I didn’t think of that before. She’s a beautiful 
girl and that accounts for all his earnestness. But why don’t 
he marry her and be done with it ? George said he guessed 
he couldn’t afford to be married yet. And then Francie 
burst out in the most furious way that we didn’t either of us 
know a thing about it and that Nathan was not ashamed of 
having been our hired man he was above it and he was not 
in love with the Darnell girl and if he was it was none of our 
business and then she got so excited and crying I had to send 


164 


NATHAN BURKE 


her to bed. I told her for form’s sake that she must apologize 
to me for being so rude but you know Ma she never will and 
I’ll just have to pass it over. She’s nothing but a child and 
got into a temper about nothing. I’m a little afraid for 
Francie’s disposition anyhow she seems so stubborn. I don’t 
know where she gets it. Dear Sister Connie was always the 
sweetest gentlest creature on earth and gave in to everybody 
except that one time when you refused to let her marry 
Francis and she shut herself in her room and wouldn’t eat 
anything nor speak to anybody and got us all so frightened 
and then ran away after all. 

I must close this terrific long letter. I don’t know whether 
you can read some of the pages where I’ve crossed them. 
Love to everybody from 

Your devoted child Anne. 


Mrs. William Ducey to 
Mrs. Stevenson Desha at 
Frankfort, Ky. 


May 21, 184- 


My dear little Sister Betty, 

Ma arrived safe and sound and looking better than I ever 
saw her which speaks volumes for your Kentucky fried 
chicken and hoe-cake. I wish I had some this minute. 
Letty Baker and the children came with her but they won’t 
be here long as Mr. Baker is coming to take them East to visit 
his mother and we’ll be alone again in a couple of weeks. I 
am rather glad for once as we are a little upset in the kitchen 
department and that girl I told you about the one I took to 
train is not much good there. She seems willing but she is 
rather dull and has fits of the sulks from time to time. And 
then whenever she’s had one of her tantrums she comes crying 
like everything and begging my pardon in the most awful 
tragic way as if she had killed somebody so that it gets my 
nerves all on edge. However I am going to peg along and 
see if I can’t civilize her in time. 

You seemed so surprised to hear that Georgie was at home 
but he has been ever since Christmas I thought you knew it. 
We sent him to Miami University in the fall you know but I 
soon saw from his letters that it was no place for him. So 
when he came home for the holidays we simply had him stay 


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165 


home and none of the professors have ever written to inquire 
or seemed to care in the least bit which proves what Georgie 
says that they are all a set of perfect boors no manners and 
no ideas of the world. He says that is what disgusted him 
almost from the start. The school is full of a lot of rough 
young fellows farmer boys and such from all over the country 
not at all the sort of associates we should select for George 
who has always had such naturally refined ways. George 
says you ought to see the style they dress pantaloons tucked 
into their boots and corduroy pea-jackets some of them. You 
can see they aren’t gentlemen he says. One example will 
give you an idea. They have some kind of club just started 
that they call the Beta Theta Pi which is a Hebrew word 
meaning the Brothers George told me when I asked him it’s 
perfectly wonderful what a taste for languages George has 
nothing’s too hard for him he told me Hebrew was quite 
easy to learn. Well he said to one of the boys in a perfectly 
polite and gracious way that he would join this club and the 
boy just turned round and growled as rough as could be 
Better wait till you’re asked! And George says that was the 
last he ever heard of it so he knows that boy never even men¬ 
tioned it. The truth is George says there was a great deal of 
jealousy of him among all the boys in his class and of course 
that influenced the whole school. It’s natural those coarse 
young men should dislike anybody who is so well-dressed and 
so much above them in appearance and position to say noth¬ 
ing of his leading his class all the time in studies. We are in 
hopes it will be different at Kenyon College where we have 
decided to send him next fall. George is quite a young man 
now going out to see the girls every evening. I can scarcely 
believe that I am the mother of that great tall long-legged 
thing. He has a latch-key which of itself makes him seem 
older. 

There is not much news here except that the engagement 
between Louise GWynne and John Vardaman has been broken 
off. You know they’ve been engaged a year it happened 
last summer when you were here don’t you remember ? I 
heard the whole of it from her mother about the quarrel I 
mean when I was there the other day. It began last winter 
with a fuss they had at the procession that very day we nearly 
had such a terrible accident and my hired girl’s father was 


166 


NATHAN BURKE 


killed I wrote Ma about it at the time. The doctor had taken 
Louise down in his buggy to see the parade and then when 
the accident happened of course he jumped right out and ran 
to help and left Louise sitting there alone for nearly an hour 
with the crowd all around and she was perfectly furious and 
would hardly speak to him afterwards and now the engage¬ 
ment’s broken. Of course it must have been disagreeable for 
Louise to be alone there all the while a young girl in such a 
conspicuous position but dear me nobody had any time to 
look at her and what would she have had the doctor do I’d 
like to know ? Some women are so unreasonable. I told 
her mother so right out but you never saw anything so silly 
as Marian Gwynne she’s just like a tiger-cat about Louise 
and you can’t find fault with a single thing Louise says or 
does Marian is right up in arms. She thinks Louise is ; per¬ 
fect . Of course Louise is an only child and all that Marian 
has got in the world but my Georgie is an onfy child too for 
that matter and we don’t spoil him to quite that extent. I 
can’t help feeling sorry for Jack Yardaman he’s such a nice 
fellow and all his people were so nice. He has just bought a 
place out in the country next to Governor Gwynne’s and was 
going to start building their house this summer. I do hope 
Louise will come around and make it up but it’s not likely 
she hasn’t got that red head for nothing. And besides she 
has a lot of attention from the men and it’s sort of turned her 
head I think. I can’t understand what they see in her. 

Talking about this makes me think of Mary Sharpless you 
know she is all the time having a desperate flirtation with 
somebody Mary will never get too old for that and anyway 
she’s the youngest looking thing you ever saw. Nobody 
would say she was a day over twenty. Everybody says Mary 
would be willing to console Doctor Vardaman but he won’t 
give her a chance. You know he has money outside of his 
practice and money is what Mary’s after. It’s a horrid thing 
to say but it’s true and somehow I can’t blame her. A minis¬ 
ter’s family always have such a scuffle to get along and never 
have enough to live on and Jim doesn’t help them at all. I 
see him sometimes on the street and oh Betty it’s aweful my 
heart aches for poor Mrs. Sharpless Jim looks so seedy and 
disreputable tho’ I never saw him drunk but I haven’t a 
doubt he is often. He doesn’t live at home any more since 


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he had that awful quarrel with his father. He has a room in 
some horrible low place down town and writes for the papers. 
The trouble was you know he told Doctor Sharpless out and 
out he didn’t believe there was any God. Wasn’t it terrible? 
Of course nobody knows what else he said I suppose he don’t 
believe in Heaven or Hell either anyway Mr. Sharpless or¬ 
dered him out of the house and nobody dares mention Jim 
before any of them now. The strange thing is to look at Jim 
you wouldn’t believe he was that sort of a man. When we 
had our accident he came and helped us and was lovely I don’t 
care who hears me say it. I went around and told everybody 
about it afterwards. And someone said to me Why Mrs. 
Ducey I don’t see how you could let that man touch you 
don’t you know he’s a blasphemer and an Atheist! I just 
said Why I couldn’t help it there were some mighty good 
Christians standing around there but they never budged. I 
never could help liking Jimmie Sharpless I suppose it’s a 
weakness but I forget all about how bad he is and anyway 
I’m not the only one because they say Doctor Vardaman likes 
him and has him at the house often and the doctor is a good 
Episcopalian. 

Good-bye with dearest love to all from 

Your loving sister 

Nan. 


Miss Frances Blake to 
Mrs. Cornelia Marsh at 

Chenonville, Avoyelles Parish, La. 

November 12, 1840 

My dear Grandma, 

Aunt Anne is sick in bed with a cold so she says I am to 
write this time as she doesn’t want you to miss hearing from 
us as usual once a week. The cold began a week ago, but 
she took some medicine New London Bilious Pills which they 
say will cure anything; it didn’t cure her however and Aunt 
Anne says she can’t understand why people will deliberately 
advertise and say their medicine will do this, that, and the 
other when it doesn’t. The doctor has just been here and 
says she will be all right in a few days now and she particu¬ 
larly wants me to say to you that the cold is not dangerous. 
While she has been sick I have been running the house, and 


168 


NATHAN BURKE 


Uncle Will says I have done very well. I oughtn’t to say 7, 
though, because of course Nance helped and wouldn’t let 
anybody wait on Aunt Anne but herself and kept Aunt Anne’s 
room beautifully. George being at college there wasn’t so 
much to do in the house. I am enclosing his last letter to 
Aunt Anne for you to read and show to the rest of the family, 
but she says please be sure and return it as she keeps all his 
letters. They are not going to have George go to college 
any more after this year. I believe he wants to stay at home 
and study medicine with Doctor Vardaman. 

The elections are all over in this State and I suppose nearly 
everywhere else, too; I don’t see why they don’t have them 
all on the same day in all the States; it takes so long to hear 
about them this way. They have had an enormous great black¬ 
board in front of a place down town with things like this on 
it: “New Hampshire goes for Van Buren” “Another Sweep¬ 
ing Harrison Victory! Georgia Whig by 10,000 majority!” 
It’s been there for the whole two weeks while the elections 
were going on, with men crowded around it half a dozen deep. 
It’s not very nice to go down town but I’ve had to since Aunt 
Anne’s been sick, and nothing happened to me. One day as 
I was coming home with a big package I met Mr. Sharpless 
— not the Reverend Mr. Sharpless, his son, I mean — the 
same one that was so kind to us when we had all that trouble 
last winter, and he asked me if he couldn’t carry my bundle. 
Aunt Anne once told me that I could bow to him but I 
mustn’t talk to him, but the way this happened I couldn’t 
very well help it, I just had to let him carry it. We didn’t 
have very far to go anyhow. I told Aunt Anne when I got 
home. I don’t think he has enough to eat and he coughed a 
good deal. On the way we met Nathan (Nathan Burke* you 
know) and he said: “Jim, what are you doing out a day like 
this? Go home and go to bed.” And he took the bundle and 
said he would take care of me the rest of the way. Mr. Sharp¬ 
less laughed and coughed and said: “Without doubt, Nat, 
you’re more respectable to walk on the street with a young lady. 
I give up.” And looked at me and bowed and went away. So 
Nathan took me home and I asked him why they said such 
things about Mr. Sharpless who seems to me to be very nice; 
and he said: “Because they don’t know any better.” I 
asked him if they were friends, and he said “Yes, great 


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169 


friends ever since we first met.” I told him I was sure any¬ 
body he liked must be nice, and he laughed a little and then 
said: “Francie, you are a dear little girl and always were! ” 
And we shook hands at the door. He really ought not to call 
me a little girl, as Fve got on long skirts now because Aunt 
Anne said I was getting too tall to be in short ones any more. 
It’s because he knows how old I am; Mr. Sharpless behaved 
exactly as if I were a grown-up young lady. This was the 
only adventure I had going out by myself, and you can see it 
wasn’t a very exciting one. 

We are all so glad Mr. Harrison was elected and Mr. 
Corwin too. I told Uncle George I supposed everything was 
going to be all right now we had a Whig President at last, 
and he laughed and said the country was saved for about the 
tenth time in his recollection. 

We sent George a big box for his birthday as he says the 
things there aren’t fit to eat. Perhaps you won’t understand 
one thing he says in his letter about how is our guest getting 
along ? He means Nance Darnell, you know. George 
doesn’t like her. 

I have to stop writing now and go see about Aunt Anne’s 
supper. With ever so much love, 

Francie. 

Mr. George Ducey to 

Mrs. William Ducey. 

Gambier, Ohio, 
November 5, 1840. 

My dear Mother; 

I omitted my customery epistle as I was feeling far 
from well at that time. It was nothing for you to be anxious 
about however, only a low fever for a few hours at a time 
with an ocasional prolonged shivering fit acompanied by 
pains in the back of the head and eyes and an aversion to 
eating ammounting almost to nausea and some other trifling 
simptoms. There has been a good deal of typhus fever about 
here but of course that may have nothing to do in connection 
with my alements and I do beg and entreat of you not to give 
it a thought if you miss hearing from me. I don’t mean to 
let myself get sick but if I do I guess I can pull through with¬ 
out troubling you. I had to have the doctor of course and 
the last time he came he said ‘Well, Ducey you are a wonder . 
I never in my life saw such fortatude. Any other man in your 


170 


NATHAN BURKE 


place would be making his will/ I told him I got it from 
my mother who never gave up, and was the finest and strongest 
character I ever knew. He said he envied me and wished he 
could meet you. He is a splendid fellow and a giant in his 
profession, a really remarkable man to be buried in this little 
out-of-the-way hole which is a perfect extingisher for genius 
and abillities, college-town though it is. 

It is no wonder really that I have an aversion to eating for 
the table here is something execrable altho’ I am at the best 
boarding-house in town. However I suppose I will get used 
to it and I want you to understand you are not to worry 
about me. I mean to get along somehow. 

I suppose your guest is going on as usual and making the 
house unpleasant for everybody acording to her habit. If I 
was in your place I never again would undertake that kind of 
a charity. It’s thrown away. Those country-people are a 
poor lot physickally and mentally and haven’t the faintest 
idea of loyalty or gratatude. I saw a great deal of them the 
day I went out hunting with our hired man Nathan What’s 
his-name — I never can remember the fellow’s last name. 
And I assure you they were all common to a degree. 

This old place goes on the same as I wrote you before. The 
professors, I regret to say, altho’ they make a little better 
apearance than those at Miami are at heart exactly the same. 
They are dull unfinished fellows that couldn’t make a success 
at the Eastern schools so have drifted out here. I can hardly 
keep up any interest in the lectures or recitations, I suppose 
because I am rather in advance of my class and the other men 
of my age. They look at me in perfect wonder; and to be 
plain don’t like it very much. I have been so much amused 
to see some of the instructors fairly quale and look anxiously 
around when I came in and took my seat. You see they are 
afraid I am going to ask questions which they can’t answer 
as that has happened several times and nothing takes a pro¬ 
fessor down so much as to have that happen in class. They 
just can’t stand it, and regard me as an enemy. They really 
don’t care to have bright men in their classes. They would 
a great deal rather have very ordinary pupils who they can 
lecture and dictate to, and who believe every word they say. 
I’ve investigated this college question thoroughly now, and 
this is my mature judgement. 


THE MAIL-BAG 


171 


The people here as is always the way in such places make 
their living off of the students so that my very modderate 
pocket-money don’t go very far. It takes almost all of it for 
washing, mending, candles, firewood, and ct. However don’t 
worry nor send me any more as with pinching and scrimping 
I can make out. For instance I can go without a fire except 
the very bitterest days, and even then I could wrap up in my 
overcoat as I sit here, and that would be quite a saving. I 
meant to have a pair of boots re-soled but I guess I can man¬ 
age without. The only thing is I am a little afraid of catching 
cold as they are really too thin for this weather, and I don’t 
want to get another of these attacks. But I’ve got a good 
constitution and would probably survive it. I’ll not deny 
that I like to apear well-dressed and show these bumpkins 
what a gentleman should look like but even with my small 
means I look better than any of them. And I have been a 
good deal surprised to have some of them come up and tell me 
I had the most polished manners they ever saw. I didn’t 
suppose they w T ould appretiate it. 

Now please don’t worry about my having so little money or 
being sick. I shall be delighted to get home for Christmas. 

Your devoted son, 

George Marsh Ducey. 

Mrs. William Ducey to 

Mrs. Cornelia Marsh. 

December 1840 

My dear Ma, 

Your letter has come and thank you so much for returning 
Georgie’s so promptly. Did all the family see it ? I knew 
they would just be fightiag to read it George’s letters are 
always so . . . [word illegible]. Oh Mother isn’t it glo¬ 
rious to have such a son ? Do you notice how thoughtful 
the dear boy is about me and how he struggled to keep back 
anything he thought might pain me ? Wasn’t it noble? Of 
course we sent him fifty dollars right away and I am not going 
to let him go back to that horrid place after New Year’s I’m 
sure the climate and food must be perfectly poisonous. For 
all he is so brave and patient you can read between the lines 
and see how he was suffering when he wrote that letter. 
That accounts for those words misspelled I know his head 
was burning so he hardly knew what he was writing and I 


172 


NATHAN BURKE 


think its 'pathetic his anxiety to hide it from me. Anyhow he 
don’t need to go to college you can see he has gone farther 
than any of the teachers and they can’t tell him much of real 
benefit. Doctor Vardaman is crazy for him to come home 
and go into his office to study medicine. The doctor doesn’t 
say much you know but when I suggested it you should have 
seen his face light up ! All he said was, Why, if George has 
any bent for it certainly Mrs. Ducey I’ll take him and give 
him a trial. Jack Vardaman is always so careful and reticent. 
In the meanwhile something very disagreeable has happened. 
It’s a good lesson to me never again to attempt any reforms. 
George was perfectly right as usual in his estimate of the 
Darnell girl’s character. I only wonder why I was so blind 
for so long. You know I was quite sick with a bad cold the 
first of the month and poor Francie had to run the house all 
by herself the child is not in the least to blame as she couldn’t 
be expected to see to everything. I might have suspected 
something myself when I saw how unnaturally devoted 
Nance was to me hardly letting anybody go into the room or 
touch me but herself. Of course this isolation gave her op¬ 
portunities and I was too sick to notice anything. . . . 

(The rest of this letter is missing. The fragment was torn 
almost in two, and discolored with something like tea or coffee 
stains. — M. S. W.) 


CHAPTER XIII 


Which rambles Considerably 

In after years Burke used to recall the fruitless effort he 
made to direct Nance Darnell’s career with an ironic melan¬ 
choly. I am afraid it was a rather priggish and pompous 
young man — a very young man — with no slight sense of his 
own importance and the weight of his judgment who went up 
and laid his adverse arguments before Mrs. Ducey that even¬ 
ing when he found out the ill-starred design she had formed. 
All that redeemed him was his devout sincerity; he meant 
well, he thought he was doing his duty. Logic and common 
sense sustained him (he believed). It never occurred to him 
until he faced Mrs. Ducey in her sitting-room that logic and 
common sense had nothing to do with the matter; that he 
might as well appeal to the laws of mathematics and gravita¬ 
tion for all the effect his reasoning would have on this pretty, 
warm-hearted, impulsive, and unyielding woman. And after 
all, thought Nathan, as he walked away in his defeat, how 
logical and how sensible were his objections ? Upon a stern 
examination they resolved into nothing but a conviction as 
deep-rooted, yet, without doubt, as utterly unreasonable as 
any Mrs. Anne could possibly hold, that she and Nance would 
never get along. He could no more argue himself out of that 
belief than he could argue Mrs. Ducey into it. Nance Dar¬ 
nell in the Ducey household ! The idea assumed to him the 
likeness of a wildly disagreeable joke, a goblin trick of Fate — 
but unfortunately that would not be a thesis calculated to 
persuade or impress anybody. And supposing (he said to 
himself) that this experiment is tried and fails — as it is of a 
surety foredoomed to fail — what then? Why, the heavens 
will not fall. Nance will go elsewhere, take up some other 
way of life — that is all. Nothing tragic about that, nothing 
to stir him to such painful anxiety. Yet he remembered the 
girl’s rapt face as she poured out to him this astonishing news 
with a sharp sting of pity, a helpless foreboding. She was so 

173 


174 


NATHAN BURKE 


happy, so bewildered in admiration, so pathetically uncon¬ 
scious of what Mrs. Ducey's interest really meant, that Nat 
could not find it in his heart to darken her. In truth it 
would have been almost impossible to make Nance compre¬ 
hend exactly what Mrs. Ducey’s plan as regarded herself was; 
she only knew that she was to live in the house with her god¬ 
dess; that this dazzling creature had noticed her, liked her, 
wanted her, was enough for Nance. The backwoods does not 
prepare young women for a useful career of domestic servi¬ 
tude; to take Nance from that liberal environment and fit 
her to a neat little round of household duties, handcuff her 
with a hundred conventions of behavior, of class and social 
position, would be not merely a hopeless, but a heart-breaking 
task. And certainly Mrs. Ducey was the last person in the 
world who should attempt it. 

What would happen when Nance discovered that her idol 
had feet of clay ? That dingy tragedy occurs to all of us at 
least once in our lives. Down he falls, our pet deity, out 
goes the altar-fire, the tripod is overset, Lord bless me, the 
sacrificial vessels are nothing but gilt tin, the wreaths are all 
faded rags, and oh, what a bitter cup of disillusionment has 
the libation become ! We all get over it, and go our ways, and 
by and by erect a good new serviceable god of whom we are 
careful not to ask too much. But Nance was not the temper 
to accept this good-humored compromise; there was nothing 
easy-going about her beliefs, and the crash of her temple 
would be a grim experience. Nathan, who by the way was 
not indulging in these fine, high-flown metaphors, but setting 
the matter before himself in very plain and sober language, 
shrank from imagining the girl's anguish of disappointment. 
He said all that he could, hinted all that he could to dissuade 
her. I think he protested too much. But he might have 
sworn upon a stack of Bibles: “Nance, your angel, Mrs. 
Ducey, is no angel at all. She is a very good woman, but 
she is impatient, she is tyrannical, she is inconsistent, she is 
obstinate, she is as thoughtlessly brutal as a child. She is 
interested in you not for yourself, for about your character 
and individuality she cares no more than if you were her pet 
canary, but because the spectacle of a creature so beautiful 
and so destitute moves her to that kind of philanthropy which 
is neither more nor less than benevolent meddling. In a 


WHICH RAMBLES CONSIDERABLY 


175 


little while she will forget all about your good looks; you will 
be to her like her marquetry desk, which is a lovely thing but 
a nuisance to take care of. She will be out of patience with 
your rough ways, your uncouth speech will offend her, she 
will weary of teaching you, she will not understand your little 
aspirations or will laugh at them, she will walk rough-shod 
over your spirit, she will carelessly insult your dearest memo¬ 
ries. She will not mean to, Nance, her intentions are the 
best in the world — but have you the philosophy to remember 
that?” And what good would this handsome long oration 
have done ? None at all, and Nathan knew it. 

No plan that he could have invented would have seemed to 
Mrs. Ducey better than her own, but the young man was a 
good deal handicapped by the knowledge that he could 
think of none. The question: “Well, and what would you 
have Nance do ?” closed his mouth. He could only reiterate 
that he would not have her do this. He was fain at last to 
give up the problem, to let matters take their course, yet it 
was with a consciousness of disloyalty to Darnelhs trust. He 
promised himself that he would see Nance often, talk to her, 
help her, perhaps try to explain the puzzling conditions of this 
new life to her. The self-conceit of these resolves fills him 
now with a derisive impatience. I think Mr. Burke’s solemn 
preachifying would not have done much good; but indeed 
he never got so far, for on the few occasions when he saw 
Nance while she was a member of the Ducey household, some 
saving sense of humor, or common humanity, I hardly know 
which, restrained him. 

The truth is, Nat’s life seemed to him very full, busy, and 
varied at this time. He had just succeeded to Mr. Quill- 
driver’s desk, Mr. Marsh sent him to Gallipolis that summer, 
to Chillicothe, to Lancaster, hither and yon. He talked with 
great men in their counting-rooms, and wrote long letters 
and carried grave reports to his tough old chief chewing 
tobacco by the stove in the back office of Ducey & Co. 
The old man liked and trusted him in his harsh, measuring 
way. When he heard that the young fellow was studying law, 
he commended that ambition; he himself advanced the ten 
dollars with which Nathan took out a notary’s seal — he 
did not give it, in spite of his hearty approval, for that would 
have been contrary to Mr. Marsh’s notions of a proper busi- 


176 


NATHAN BURKE 


ness discipline. “It’ll come handy, Nat; it’s a kind of con¬ 
venience for me to have a notary right here in the store. 
‘S’-help-you-Godj-forty-cents,’ hey? Ho, ho!” he said, 
chuckling. “You ought to charge ’em forty cents every time 
you swear ’em, you know. I guess you can write contracts 
and conveyances, too, by this time, can’t you ? And make 
out an abstract of title, hey?” And Nat acknowledging 
that he could, and did, and sometimes took in a little money 
by these accomplishments, old George nodded his head ap¬ 
provingly. “That’s right — always have more than one 
iron in the fire,” said he. In other talks he gave Burke the 
benefit of his accumulated worldly wisdom, letting in an oc¬ 
casional sidelight on his own shrewd and calculating, yet not 
at all unkindly, character. By degrees and in odd hours at 
the store he told the young man the whole of his hard, ad¬ 
venturous, conquering history; it was not the least interest¬ 
ing of the stories which have been confided to Mr. Burke’s 
extraordinarily receptive ear; and some of its details were of 
real use to him in later years. 

“Know how I came to settle here?” said the old man. 
“Why, it happened this way. I came up from N’Orleans 
the summer of eighteen-twelve, close on to thirty years ago. 
I was at Zanesville when I heard the proprietors — there 
were four of ’em, you know, that had undertaken with the 
Government to get up a city here — were going to auction 
off the lots on the town site the first part of June. Soon as 
I heard that I came along up here with a lot of others and 
they began the sale the eighteenth — the very day the 
United States declared war against the old country. There 
weren’t anything but log-cabins here then, but they had the 
whole place laid out on paper, High Street, Town Street, 
everything. The sale went on for three days. First day 
I did a little buying. Then I kind of hung off — I was just 
waiting ’round, you know, just waiting ’round, Nat,” said 
the old fellow, turning his quid and grinning. “Second 
day a man I knew come to me and says, ‘Why, Marsh, 
ain’t you bidding in any?’ ‘I’m bidding some,’ says I; 
‘way things are going, I’ve got to be careful,’ I tokfhim. 
‘Why, Lord,’ he says, ‘you don’t have to pay it all 
down. They make the sales by title-bond, you know, and 
you don’t have to give but a third or fourth of the price and 


WHICH RAMBLES CONSIDERABLY 


177 


they’ll take your notes for the rest.’ ‘I haven’t got any 
too much money,’ says I; ‘I just thought I’d wait’round 
a little — just wait ’round.’ Ye see, Nathan, I’d sized up a 
plenty of the buyers, and thinks I to myself: ‘Gentlemen, 
if you’ve got the money to take up those notes as they come 
due annually, I’ll be surprised. Some of this property will 
be on the market cheap inside of three or four years, or my 
name ain’t George Marsh.’ And, by damn, Nat, that’s 
exactly what happened. I settled right down here to keep 
my eye on it. ’Twas going to be a kind of a lengthy business, 
but I didn’t know any better way to put in my time. In 
about two years more than a third of the lots had come home 
to roost, as you might say. Some fellow’d make a payment 
and put out all the cash he had on an improvement, and that 
would bust him up. The lot would fall back to the pro¬ 
prietor. Well, the lots being in the proprietors’ hands and 
their giving time on the payments kind of kept prices up — 
that is, from two to five hundred dollars a lot — for four-five 
years. I just kept waiting ’round. Once in a while I’d 
go off to Cincinnati, or N’Orleans, or N’York, but mostly 
I stayed here. Then finally two of the proprietors failed 
themselves — and then maybe there wasn’t a whaling lot 
of land for sale! The United States Marshal and Sheriff 
put the lots up at forced sale after they’d appraised and 
offered ’em two or three times, and money was so scarce in 
the county they just had to sell. Some of ’em went for ten, 
fifteen, twenty dollars.” Old George jingled the coins in 
his pockets significantly. “That Front Street piece was 
one of ’em,” he remarked. “I’ve sold out most of what I 
bought right here, but some I’ve got over in the Refugee 
Tract I’ve held on to. Funny thing, the fellow that owned 
that ought to have made a good thing out of it, for he bought 
it himself at Sheriff’s sale, but I guess he wasn’t much of a 
manager. I made money on that transaction, Nat.” 

Nathan thought he deserved to profit. The picture of old 
George, canny and patient as a veteran cat at a mouse-hole, 
was so characteristic, so naively humorous, that Burke 
laughed with a deeper relish than his patron suspected. 
These manoeuvres would have been beyond Nat’s own 
powers; he had not much turn for affairs, as indeed Marsh 
knew perfectly well. It was the younger man’s turn for hard 

tt 


178 


NATHAN BURKE 


work, his certain integrity, the gift of plain talk, and likewise 
the gift of holding his tongue that won his senior's favor. 
“You’re doing right to try and make a lawyer of yourself, 
Nathan,” he said, not without a touch of regret. “It’s what 
you’re cut out for — you’d never make much of an out at 
this. You’re the kind of man people naturally talk to — 
they want to tell their troubles to somebody, and they’ve 
got a feeling you’re safe. You can’t put that into men. 
You’ve got to be born that way; and it’s a good thing to be 
born with, no difference what you do, whether you’re a 
lawyer, or whatever you are.” He finished almost with a 
sigh — which would have been a remarkable evidence of 
sentiment from old George Marsh. It may be he was think¬ 
ing of his unavailing efforts to convert into “ safe ” men his 
brother — William Ducey — or even young George. 

Mr. George Marsh Ducey, to tell the truth, showed the 
slightest possible disposition towards either the legal or the 
mercantile career, or in fact a career of any sort. He was 
at this time one of the most elegant young gentlemen it has 
ever been Burke’s lot to behold. This spring and summer 
having returned from Miami University, a seat of learning 
where he had been, —as he very soon let everybody know, 
— entirely unappreciated, he used to visit the store occa¬ 
sionally, and even had a desk assigned to him in one corner 
of the office. At least an hour daily did George occupy this 
august eminence. He came down about ten o’clock of a 
summer morning, languid and exquisite in snowy white 
ducks, with the dark blue coat, the marseilles waistcoat 
delicately dotted with pink rosebuds, the rich satin scarf 
with which the dandies of the day adorned themselves. 
The clerks surveyed him in measureless admiration; old 
Marsh raised his shock eyebrows and grunted when his name¬ 
sake strolled in, affable, Chesterfieldian, illuminating those 
gloomy precincts with his gracious presence, “shedding fra¬ 
grance” like the gods and goddesses in the Mneid. George 
did not injure his health by too close application to business, 
thereby following out his mother’s anxious injunctions. His 
desk was a miracle of neat order, and after he had read the 
paper nothing else of moment ever occurred to disturb it. 
He went home to dinner at noon, and spent the rest of the 
day relaxed in what he himself had been overheard to style 


WHICH RAMBLES CONSIDERABLY 


179 


‘the delights of female society.” There was no lack of that 
at the Ducey house, which still swarmed with visitors as it 
had in Burke’s day. How did Nance Darnell get on amongst 
these decorative and decorated ladies ? George spoke of her 
with a pleasing patronage; but he patronized us all, from his 
uncle down, and I fear that George’s opinions and sometimes 
his reports were not always reliable. 

“That Darnell girl has a dev’lish tempah — the tempah 
of a devil, absolutely, Nathan,” he remarked casually, 
inspecting the other with his soft, dark, expressionless eyes; 
“told her to black my boots the othah day and she flew out 
of the room like a wildcat — a regulah wildcat, b’George ! 
All but threw the boots in my face. Mothah had to go aftah 
her and ordah her to do it — she generally will obey Mothah, 
you know. B’George, that’s the kind they take the whip to, 
down South. A person in her position can’t afford to have 
that kind of a temper — tempah. ’Twon’t do in a servant, 
you know.” 

Nathan listened in silence, biting his lips. It sometimes 
seemed to him that George made a point of detailing these 
wretched scenes to him, forever dragging poor Nance into 
the conversation, and flaunting her, as it were, in her character 
of menial before Burke’s face; not till long afterwards did 
Nathan find out the reason. A greater man than he can 
ever hope to be once said that the jokes of dull people are 
always cruel; and no doubt George mightily fancied his own 
powers of raillery, took it as a dainty bit of fun to remind the 
ex-hired man of his humble beginnings and of the no less 
humble situation of his lady-love. George was a little mis¬ 
taken in his estimate of Burke; the latter was not in love 
with Nance Darnell, but had he been, and were Nance ten 
times a servant, Nat would have felt neither shame nor 
resentment at this graceful waggishness. What roused him 
to ineffectual anger and pity was the thought of the poor 
girl herself with her fanatic devotion, her ignorance, her 
crooked pride, incongruously subject to George Ducey. 
We may talk as much as we please about the dignity of hon¬ 
est toil, but, sir, how would you like to black the boots of the 
man you despise? “She can’t stand it very much longer 
at this rate,” thought Nat, and wondered at the vitality of 
Nance’s feeling for Mrs. Anne. 


180 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Mothah’s been trying to teach her to read and write,” 
pursued George, in the mellow drawl which he carefully 
affected of late, having been complimented on his charming 
Southern pronunciation by some member of the “female 
society” wherein he shone; “she said she knew how when 
she came, but really she didn’t, you know. Ton my word 
it’s ridiculous — regulahly laughable. She brought Mothah 
her slate with ‘many’ spelled m, e, double n, y, you know, 
and Mothah burst out laughing — Mothah’s full of fun, 
and that was a little too much for her. Then off she went — 
Nance, I mean — in anothah tantrum! Mothah says it’s 
terribly trying. Just think! Francie cried — never could 
see a joke, Francie. Mothah went out and found her with 
Nance, and Francie was positively crying.” 

“Francie always was a dear little girl,” said Nat, huskily. 

“Yes. Aw — by the way, Burke, don’t you think you’d 
— aw — bettah say ‘ Miss Blake ’ ? ” - 

“Why, yes, certainly,” said Nathan, agreeably; “I had 
forgot she was getting to be a young lady.” 

“And — aw — perhaps you’d bettah stop calling me 
‘George,’ you know — ?” 

“Why, are you getting to be a young gentleman ?” asked 
Burke, with a lively surprise and interest; “dear me, I never 
noticed it!” — a remark which George received without at 
all suspecting that it was capable of two interpretations, 
so that Mr. Nat’s fine sarcasm benefited only himself. Even 
when the boy irritated him most, Nathan could always 
relieve his temper by some such speech, secure in the amused 
knowledge that George would never understand it. There 
would have been a kind of brutality in using severe measures 
with George ; something curiously feminine in his feeble 
spitefulness restrained one. You could not be angry with 
a creature so weak; it seemed as if any man should be able 
to withstand his pygmy assaults. It was only when George 
made himself a serious inconvenience that he must be treated 
with active severity; but this occurred with increasing fre¬ 
quency during the latter half of Burke’s tenure of the head- 
bookkeeper’s desk under Mr. Marsh. 

He was considerably surprised to see George returning to 
the store about five o’clock one evening, an hour when young 
Mr. Ducey was most often to be observed richly gloved and 


WHICH RAMBLES CONSIDERABLY 


181 


waistcoated, fresh curled, oiled, and perfumed, taking the 
air by the side of his mother in the family carriage; or per¬ 
haps himself escorting one of the favored fair in a high, 
fashionable, two-seated vehicle which had lately been bought 
for his use. George was a great ladies’ man; terrific was the 
slaughter his eyes, figure, dress, and manners had wrought 
among the sex — he said so himself with regret. Not in 
direct, rough words, of course, but exercising that species 
of clever and well-bred innuendo of which he was the master. 
So when this conqueror was beheld abandoning his natural 
field at the most propitious season for the grimy and gritty 
neighborhood of the warehouse and its shirt-sleeved society, 
wonder ran among the ranks of clerks. They were prepar¬ 
ing to close up; the elder Ducey had already gone home. 
One lad was sweeping out the front of the place, while an¬ 
other laid the dust with a sprinkling-can. Nathan was 
posting his books in the office, his lank legs wreathed about 
his stool, the familiar aroma of codfish and ‘Sisal hemp’ 
ascending to him in cool, earthy gusts from an open hatch¬ 
way leading to the cellar, when the not less familiar odor of 
George’s millefleurs and Macassar caused him to look up. 

“Hello!” he said in astonishment, pausing with a sus¬ 
pended pen. “What on earth are you doing here?” 

“That’s what every single one of those boys has been 
saying!” said George, peevishly; “infernal bad mannahs, I 
call it. W r hy shouldn’t I be here, I’d like to know?” He 
came in, drawing the door to after him with unusual care. 
It squeaked aloud on its hinges, being seldom closed; and, 
indeed, the wood was so swelled with recent dampness that 
George could not force the door into its frame, and gave up 
trying to latch it in a sudden and most unnatural burst of 
temper. “Oh, damn!” he said, flinging himself down in his 
uncle’s arm-chair; he threw out his legs, kicking the spittoon 
aside viciously, and began to bite his nails with a very moody 
and perturbed countenance. Nathan looked at him puzzled; 
George’s disposition was so mild, equable, and self-satisfied 
that it was hard to guess what could have so disturbed him. 
“I suppose his last new coat doesn’t fit,” said Burke to him¬ 
self, and turned again to his figuring, not being much given to 
inquiring into other people’s affairs, which they were generally 
only too willing to confide to him unsolicited. 


182 


NATHAN BURKE 


“I say, Burke—” George began after a momentary si¬ 
lence. 

Nat finished the entry and raised his eyes. “Well?” 
he said — and wondered to see George flinch under his 
gaze. 

“You — ah — you’ve got such a quick way of moving 
your head and eyes, Nat,” said the other, with an uneasy 
smile; “you kind of take a fellow aback. I guess that’s 
what makes you such a cracking good shot, hey ? I was 
telling a fellow the othah day that you were the best shot 
I evah saw. ‘There’s Burke,’ says I; ‘he’s got an eye 
like a rifleman, wonderful, b’George, wondahful!’ ‘Why,’ 
he says — it was Billy White — you know Billy, don’t you? 
— ‘Why,’ says Bilty; ‘Burke? he was your hired man, 
wasn’t he?’ Said it just that way — kind of a sneering 
way, you know, Nat. I just turned right ’round on him. 
‘Hired man be damn!’ I says; ‘Nat Burke’s a gentleman, 
and what’s more he’s my friend. I just want you to remem¬ 
ber, Bill White, that anybody that says anything against 
him says it against me! ’ I wouldn’t have him talking 
that way about you, Nathan. I let him know flat I wouldn’t 
stand it,” said George, nobly. 

“I don’t see that he said anything against me,” said Burke, 
returning to his ledger. 

“It was the way he said it, Nat; it was his mannah — 
low-down sort of a fellow, Bill White — fathah was a horse- 
doctah, b’George!” cried George. 

“So may mine have been, for all I know,” Nat said, 
grinning. He closed the book, wiped his pen, and began 
clearing up his desk. One of the clerks shouted a question 
at him from the front, and Nathan shouted back directions 
as he sought his coat and hat hanging on their nail. George 
watched him nervously. 

“I don’t know what fathah and Uncle George would do 
without you, Nat; positively I don’t believe they could get 
along,” he said earnestly; “they just leave everything to 
you and go off when they choose, don’t they? Is — ah — 
Uncle George now — he isn’t around anywhere, is he?” 

“I think he’s gone home — I saw him start out,” Nathan 
told him. “Did you want to speak to him?” 

No, oh, no, George didn’t want to speak to his uncle. He 


WHICH RAMBLES CONSIDERABLY 


183 


just dropped in — just dropped in, you know, Nat. He’d 
been thinking he ought to get down to the store more regu- 
khly, but he’d been sick. He was sick, you know, curse it, 
sick a good deal of the time, and the rest, Mothah would 
hardly let him out of her sight — or the girls got hold of him, 
you know how girls are. He smirked faintly at the last 
words, and pulled up his shirt-collar with a side-glance into 
the little old cracked looking-glass in the corner where the 
office-force were wont to straighten their plebeian ties and 
head-gear before going out on the street. It reflected a 
sickly pale, anxious, and flurried face this time; and Nathan, 
washing his hands at the battered stand just around the 
partition (such being our inelegant toilet-arrangements), saw 
it with a humorous concern. What under heaven could 
be the matter with George ? He certainly had not come all 
the way back to the store at this hour of the day to retail 
complimentary anecdotes about Burke’s career and char¬ 
acter. Whatever his purpose, he seemed to be thoroughly 
at a loss, groping in a jungle of impulses, amongst which the 
strongest and best defined was apparently to propitiate 
Nathan. And the latter, who, during the whole of his life, 
had never felt himself under the necessity of propitiating 
anything or anybody save his own vigilant conscience, was 
at once repelled and interested by the spectacle. Even 
while he reflected he saw the other’s face light up as with a 
new and brilliant idea. 

“I say, Burke,” he began again, this time with abundant 
confidence, however. “I nearly forgot what I came in for 
— funny thing, isn’t it, how one gets to talking and forgets ? 
Mothah wants to change a twenty-five-dollar bill, and she 
told me if I was passing by to stop in and get you to do it. 
Four or five dollahs in silvah, and the rest in greenbacks 
will do, she said.” 

“All right,” said Burke, moving to the cash-drawer, with a 
passing wonder at the obliquity of George’s mental processes. 
Why not say his mother wanted the money at once and be 
done with it? Why not — ? Nathan paused with his 
hand in his pocket sorting out the key; he turned; George 
was at his elbow and their glance crossed. This time the 
smooth brown eyes did not falter. 

“Mothah said—” George went on fluently. 


184 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Your mother gave you the bill, I suppose?” asked 
Nathan, holding out his hand. 

“Why, no — just like a woman, wasn’t it? She forgot 
to — started upstairs to get it out of her desk, and then went 
off about something else. My grandmothah’s there now, 
you know, and they get to talking and nevah stop all day 
long. But it’s all right, you know, perfectly safe. I should 
think I’d hardly need to tell you that here” said George, 
with a touch of loftiness. “Just make it five dollahs in silvah 
and—” 

“I can’t give you any money that way, George,” said Nat. 
“Not in my position, you know. I’m sorry. I guess your 
mother will have to wait till to-morrow.” He could have 
laughed but for a kind of reluctant contempt he felt at the 
chagrin in the other’s face. 

“She can’t wait—really she can’t, Nat,” said George, 
feverishly; “she — she’s got to pay a bill — a — a dress¬ 
maker’s bill, they always have to have change to pay a 
bill, you know. Mothah can’t bear to keep work-people 
waiting — why, you know that. She — she really needs the 
money.” 

Nathan leaned against the desk, surveying him silently. 
It was not worth while to answer; he wondered with an ex¬ 
traordinary mixture of pity and shame and amusement what 
George would do or say next, to what lengths he would go. 

“ Well, aren’t you going to give me the money ? ” demanded 
the boy, — for after all he was only a boy, — sharply. 

“No.” 

“I’d like to know why, Nathan Burke. That’s my 
fathah’s money you’ve got locked up in that drawer. It’s 
— it’s my money, by God, and you haven’t any right to keep 
it locked up when I want it!” shrieked out George, losing 
his self-command under this strain. 

“I thought you said your mother wanted it.” 

“That’s what I’m saying — that’s what I mean. I — I 
was just joking, you know, Nat,” said George, with a smile 
so ghastly it moved the older man almost to compassion; 
“she — she don’t quite need twenty-five, she could do with 
twenty, or — or fifteen. Can’t you — ? Only fifteen, 
Nat ?” George was in earnest now at any rate. The sweat 
stood on his forehead; he made small, fluttering gestures. 


WHICH RAMBLES CONSIDERABLY 


185 


It was incredibly pitiful, incredibly mean. He saw refusal 
in Burke’s face, and flung off from him in a fit of womanish 
fury. 

“I tell you what it is, Burke, you’re going to be sorry for 
this! I’ve only got to lift my finger — yes, I’ve only got 
to say one word and out you go, do you know that ? D’ye 
suppose my fathah’s going to have any damned impudent 
upstart like you around ordering me t You’re afraid, 
that’s what’s the matter with you — you’ve been helping 
yourself. S’pose I can’t see that, hey ? Is there twenty- 
five dollars in the drawer — is there ? How much have you 
been nibbling off at a time? How long — ?” he stopped, 
gasping, shrinking back against the wall in a terror so des¬ 
perate it reminded Nathan of some hunted animal. “ Don’t 
strike me, Nathan, don’t! I — I—I didn’t mean it — 
I—” 

“I’m not going to strike you,” said Burke; “but calling me 
a thief won’t help you any, you know, George. What’s 
the matter ? Are you in trouble ? Haven’t you any 
money ?” 

“I don’t owe anybody,” George cried out eagerly; and at 
the preposterous naivete of this lie Nathan could not keep 
back a smile. “What are you grinning at? I tell you I 
don’t ” — he stammered, his face turned clay-color, he almost 
cowered in the corner. And upon the instant in walked, 
stalked, stamped, old George Marsh! 

It answered grotesquely to the awful scene in “Don Gio¬ 
vanni” when the statue enters. The old man must have 
heard every word, having been, as he afterwards explained 
to Burke, occupied in sampling a consignment of spices in 
the cellar almost beneath their feet. An acute sympathy 
for George invaded and took possession of Nathan, warring 
the while with an untimely desire to laugh. For it was not 
at all funny. The boy was so abject in his fine clothes, 
so pitiable with his weak frame and face. Mr. Marsh him¬ 
self was quite unconscious that his entrance supplied the 
last touch of melodrama; he had merely come up from the 
cellar when it suited his convenience, and now stood, breath¬ 
ing a little short, for he was a heavy though still sturdy man 
and the steep stair had winded him, and eying his grand- 


186 


NATHAN BURKE 


nephew with his small, steady old eyes, bedded in thick folds 
and wrinkles. He sat down. 

“George/’ he said, not unkindly; “no, stand where you 
are — don’t shake that way. What are you afraid of ? 
I’m not going to hurt you — nobody’s going to hurt you. 
You want money? How much ?” 

“I — I don’t want any money, Uncle George, I — I 
wasn’t asking for money. Mothah wants —” 

Old George waved his hand. “Never mind that,” he 
said briefly. “Youwant money ? How much?” 

“I — I — twenty-five dollahs — or thirty — thirty dol- 
lahs,” said George, recovering somewhat. 

“Give it to him, Burke,” said the old man; and Nathan 
turned again to the cash-drawer, not greatly surprised. On 
the other hand, George, as was plainly to be seen, was very 
agreeably startled and relieved; if he had known it was as 
easy as this, he would not have wasted all that painful and 
circuitous diplomacy. By the time Nathan had counted 
out the sum, George was himself again, and magnanimously 
accepted it, ready to forget and forgive. 

“Of course it was unfortunate me leaving Mothah’s 
check at home, Uncle George,” he explained; “the fact 
is I’m a little — ah — careless about money mattahs. But 
you acted quite right, Burke, quite right, to refuse to give 
me the money. I’m sure you’re very reliable. Only, you 
see, I found it a little trying. I knew it would be all right, 
but you weren’t here, you know, Uncle George, and though 
I kept telling Burke he was perfectly secure, still he wouldn’t 
give it to me. Regulah watch-dog, b’George!” 

“I heard you,” said Mr. Marsh. He drew a long breath 
that was almost a sigh, and passed his coarse, veined, hairy old 
hand over his chin, looking up at his nephew thoughtfully. 
“Thirty dollars ain’t all you owe, hey, George?” 

“ Sir ? Why, yes — that is, no — I don’t owe — I — I — ” 

“Nobody ever tells all they owe,” said old George, calmly. 
“However— ” he made a gesture in which Nathan discerned 
a certain weariness, and sat for a moment rasping his fingers 
along his chin and staring absently at or through the young 
men, as it might be, into that past of his which was doubtless 
stocked with just such sordidly trivial scenes. He roused 
himself. 


WHICH RAMBLES CONSIDERABLY 


187 


“Run along, George, keep out of trouble — if you can,” 
he said. “Run along, I tell you. Burke always sees the 
place shut up.” 

As this history is that of Nathan Burke and not of Mr. 
George Ducey it will be necessary, with whatever regret, 
to omit an account of all the scenes similar to that just 
recorded in which the latter young gentleman figured. It 
was the first of a long series; for if there ever was a time when 
George was not in need of money, Burke never knew of it. He 
had a handsome allowance which he invariably anticipated 
to the last penny; it was increased — still it dribbled through 
his fingers; increased again, yet the first of the month always 
saw him out of pocket and manoeuvring with a curious 
fertility of cheap excuses to get more. He was not the only 
young fellow who has,suffered from an inability to fit his 
coat to his cloth. General Burke, who is a pattern old 
gentleman, can remember a certain early acquaintance of his 
sinking various sums of money in the game of poker — at 
which this youth greatly fancied himself for a while — at 
one period of his interesting career. If his losses were after 
all not so very large, they were still more than he had means to 
pay out of his compact salary of bookkeeper; so he went 
forth and pawned his overcoat — yea, for nine dollars and 
a half he pawned it, with a greasy old Hebrew who heartily 
invited his patronage; and he satisfied that debt, and never 
played another game of poker for twenty years. But what 
became of George Ducey’s money? Perhaps he himself 
could scarcely have told. He spent it on nobody but George 
Ducey, yet he had no vices. No one ever saw or heard of 
George being drunk or playing poker; and for the coarser 
indulgences he had neither the health, nor, I honestly believe, 
the taste. He was not in the least a good fellow, a boon 
companion, as the phrase goes; indeed, he had few close 
friends of either sex, although he cut a tremendous dash 
socially, as I have attempted to describe. He could dance 
beautifully, his dress was impeccable, his manners over¬ 
whelmingly studied and exact — then what was the matter 
with George Ducey? It would be unjust — at least, so it 
seemed to Burke — to say of a creature so harmless that he 
was “no earthly good.” Yet Nat heard that said of George 
more than once. His mother believed him perfect, admired 


188 


NATHAN BURKE 


him to his face, hovered over him with a thousand touching 
maternal cares. More than likely she bestowed on him all 
her savings, scraped and stinted and wore old bonnets, 
and turned old dresses and went through all a woman’s 
petty tragedy of economy and management to provide for 
his whims, bullied her husband and cajoled her uncle into 
paying his bills, — nor, with all this, ever allowed herself 
to perceive of what poor stuff her idol was compact. About 
this resolute and deliberate blindness of women there is 
something so noble and pathetic we forget its desperate silli¬ 
ness; we even lean on it and trust to it. For if a man’s 
mother will not stand up for him, where shall we look for 
faith and loyalty ? 


CHAPTER XIV 


In which we hear a little more Ancient History 

Mr. James Sharpless, of whom mention has been made 
pretty often herein, and whom Burke began to know very 
well about this time, was born — as the two young fellows 
found upon comparing notes — in the same year with Nat 
himself, that famous year of the big squirrel-hunt, at Harris¬ 
burg in Pennsylvania, where his father happened to be 
stationed in cure of souls. If I am not mistaken, the name 
is native to that State, having been borne with honor by 
many stout citizens of the Society of Friends, to whom Jim’s 
father was undoubtedly related. The elder Sharpless was 
already a middle-aged man, and his wife no longer young, 
when Master James entered their lives with his disturbing 
personality. “I was a kind of a postscript, Nat,” Jim used 
to say in his reckless way; “Mary — my sister Mary, you 
know — was their only child, and she was ten years old. 
I dare say they didn’t expect to have any more, when I came 
along and upset everybody’s calculations. Pretty good 
chance to make a spoiled little brat, wasn’t it ? Well, I am 
spoiled, I suppose, according to father’s notions,” he would 
conclude with a short sigh. 

Not long after his birth the family removed to Ohio, 
and Jim could remember no other home than the little, one¬ 
storied frame parsonage beside the church on State Street. 
It was a cold, simple, plain place; the minister’s salary was 
not large, and too much temporal comfort would not have 
been becoming to his cloth and calling at any rate, in Mr. 
Sharpless’s rigid belief. They were in no danger of it; among 
Jim’s first recollections were the unceasing activities of his 
mother, patching, mending, devising carpets out of rags, 
bracing up lame chairs, tinkering at hinges and window- 
cords, surreptitiously laundering underwear, stealthily car¬ 
rying out ashes, and performing other duties not suited to the 
state and dignity of a clergyman’s wife. From the time he 

189 


190 


NATHAN BURKE 


was old enough to sit at table he used to receive and obey 
with a humorous understanding secret instructions to refuse 
butter and not ask for a second helping of anything, whether 
joint or pudding. Mrs. Sharpless accomplished prodigies in 
the way of making her own and Mary’s clothes, and cutting 
down her husband’s for the little fellow; once Jim furiously 
attacked an older and bigger boy who had dared to offer 
some disparaging comment on the paternal trousers as they 
appeared nicely adjusted to the filial legs. He came home 
from school blubbering with rage, with a black eye and a 
bleeding nose — and incontinently received extra chastise¬ 
ment from his father’s cane, and was locked in the woodshed, 
supperless, to reflect on the Sin of Temper. I fear this 
dungeon became sadly familiar to young James as the years, 
advanced; he was forever falling foul of the authorities, 
domestic or foreign, on one point or another, and used to 
take his beating and imprisonment in a stoic silence which 
of itself afforded proof to his father of the lad’s obdurate 
and stiff-necked disposition. Original sin undoubtedly 
encompassed his son, the parson thought with sorrow, and 
girded himself up and warred against it unswervingly. Once, 
in passing, Jim pointed out to Burke the shed of penance, 
and a little window which, he said, was over his father’s desk 
in the minister’s study. “That was where I used to get my 
correction,” he said; “it was pretty frequent. Mother 
would be crying in the next room — heigh-ho!” 

It is doubtful whether the head of the household observed 
at all those small devices by which his wife sought to make 
both ends meet and keep a decent front, in the stern spiritual 
exaltation with which he pursued his religious vocation. He 
was shut up in that shabby study, deeply busied with his 
books, his theological treatises, and the terrifying eloquence 
of his sermons from morning to night. The little boy held 
his breath and went on tiptoe past the door. He described 
to Nathan how he figured God in a solemn isolation with 
books and a table and a formidable black cane like his father; 
and wondered how the company of the blest with their harps 
and noise could be allowed in that austere neighborhood, or 
what sort of accommodations would be provided in heaven 
for people like his mother, who was always so brave, cheerful, 
gay, ready-witted, and tender. Jim spoke of her with an 


A LITTLE MORE ANCIENT HISTORY 191 


admiring affection that touched the other young man to the 
heart; and indeed when Burke came to know Mrs. Sharpless, 
he thought his friend’s enthusiasm well-grounded, and saw 
in the son not a few of the mother’s kindly and winning and 
eminently humane traits. 

It will have been seen that, notwithstanding the accepted 
theories about these late arrivals, Jim grew up under as severe 
a discipline as could have been wished. The Reverend Mr. 
Sharpless was an earnest, heart-searching man, and the 
gospel which he preached, and for which he would have gone 
to the stake with unflinching fortitude, was not one of tender¬ 
ness or toleration. He was afraid to spare the rod, although 
he could not have applied it with any relish. A just man, 
he labored hard under the burden of his parental responsi¬ 
bilities, racked his soul with prayers for guidance — and still 
felt his child elude him. A less conscientious father might 
have succeeded better. One could have believed, according 
to the reverend gentleman’s own grim creed, that the two 
were foreordained to disagree. Jim must have been a quick, 
bright, puzzling, and puzzled youngster; he asked questions 
and drew inferences with that staggering infantile logic 
before which we have all stood confounded and subtly 
amused. But to the father whose literal imagination pre¬ 
sented God and the devil in a concrete personal presence and 
power, it doubtless often seemed as if the last-named 
prompted Jim to his discomfiture. The child’s very precoc¬ 
ity was a menace to his salvation, in his elder’s alarmed view. 
When he was no more than six or seven, Jim, having got hold 
of, or been given a copy of “ Robinson Crusoe,” came in his 
reading to that part of the narrative where Crusoe’s efforts 
to convert his savage to Christianity are set forth with all 
Defoe’s veracity of imagination and seizing simplicity. “If 
God so much stronger than devil, why God no kill devil?” 
asks Friday, innocently — and honest Robinson is hard put 
to it for an answer. Who would have supposed that “ Robin¬ 
son Crusoe” would be a book to corrupt the young? But 
Mr. Sharpless, finding Jim brooding over this passage, took 
and locked it away from him in disapproving and foreboding 
horror — an act than which nothing could have been better 
calculated to fix and emphasize the ideas Man Friday had 
suggested to the boy’s mind. A hundred times the poor 


192 


NATHAN BURKE 


father thus defeated his own ends; a miserably perverse 
fate governed all their relations, and when he heard that 
sorry tale of years of misunderstanding and tyranny and 
rebellion, Nat Burke’s heart ached for them both. Without 
doubt there was a strong similarity between the two char¬ 
acters ; and it is sad to think of these two brave, turbulent, 
honest spirits, each incapable of compromise, doomed to be 
eternally at odds. The present generation would find Jim’s 
heretical views — which the boy very early arrived at and 
boldly pronounced — not at all shocking, scarcely even 
noticeable, so far have we advanced (or strayed from, which 
you choose !) that narrow road in which the Reverend Sharp- 
less’s feet were set. So my son is honorable, is kind, is tem¬ 
perate, just, and manly, I ask few questions about his creed; 
and if he finds solace and inspiration in some certain form of 
worship or in none at all, I do not try to bend him. But in 
Jim Sharpless’s young days, the Lord was a jealous God; 
the fires and tortures of the Place of Punishment were very 
real, much more real, somehow, than the jewellery-box decora¬ 
tions of the Place of Reward — and that both localities ac¬ 
tually existed, I am sure Mr. Sharpless and every other good 
church-member never doubted. “The trouble with all the 
creeds is that not one of the people who invented ’em had a 
sense of humor,” Jim used to say — a remark which then — 
and perhaps now — would cause the hair of the orthodox 
of whatever denomination to stand on end. The world 
was made in seven days — the Serpent invaded Eden — 
the sun went back on the dial of Ahaz — the walls of Jericho 
tumbled down incontinently at the trumpets’ sounding. 
Young Jim Sharpless irreverently, blasphemously denounc¬ 
ing these statements as untrue, or as not adding in the least 
to the majesty of the Creator even if they were true, scan¬ 
dalized the community. “Juggling with wine and water to 
accommodate a lot of carousing Jews at a wedding is a mighty 
cheap business for God to be about, it seems to me,” declared 
the unfortunate boy — could Satan himself have said worse ? 
We may believe Jim suffered for his levity — if it was levity. 
In any other cause he would have been esteemed an honorable 
martyr; the best of faiths could not have asked a more devoted, 
self-sacrificing, courageous, and inflexible adherent than was 
Jim to his sacrilegious opinions. It was strange to Burke — 


A LITTLE MORE ANCIENT HISTORY 


193 


who, truth to tell, was always content enough to take religion 
as he found it and never had the time or disposition to specu¬ 
late — it was strange to him, I say, to witness his friend’s fierce 
and painful strivings, his relentless search for some spiritual 
rock of rest and truth. Ever since he was old enough to 
think independently at all, Jim said, the struggle had gone 
on. What distress it had caused his father and himself, 
who knows? “But I can’t help it, Nat, I can’t help it,” 
the young man would burst out. “I can’t subscribe to 
his childish beliefs. I can’t accept his mean, bargaining 
deity. When I was a child — yes, when I was twelve years 
old, I rebelled against it. I wouldn’t say my prayers because 
I’d caught God — my father’s God — cheating. They told 
me He’d give me anything in reason I wanted if it was good 
for me to have it. So I prayed, reasonably enough, it seemed 
to me: ‘Oh, God, please don’t let me have any more sore 
throats!’ (I used to have ’em cruelly, you know — do still, 
for that matter.) Did God hear me ? He may have, but 
I had the sore throats just the same, and that was enough 
for me. I wanted Him to act on the square. I do; you do. 
Why not God? If He were to come on earth and apply His 
principles to running Mr. Marsh’s store, He wouldn’t stay 
in business a minute. It was too one-sided, I thought, when 
I was a poor bewildered little boy, trying to make head or 
tail of it all. I wanted somebody to explain the manifest 
injustice I saw all around me and make it agree with what 
I heard about the infinite justice of the Almighty. What 
did I get ? Why, another manifest injustice, a whipping and 
bread-and-water, in the woodshed. I swear I wasn’t a bad 
boy, Nathan, in spite of what you must have heard — I 
only wanted to know. I don’t think I’m a bad man; but 
God can’t hire me to be good. I’ve about stopped wanting to 
know. I give it up; I can’t see any purpose, beneficent or 
otherwise, in the universe — I have to let it go at that. I 
don’t know why we’re all here, nor where we came from, 
nor whither we’re going, and I solemnly believe no man on 
earth has ever found out. I’m doing my best to please my 
own conscience and live up to my own standards, and I don’t 
care a jot about God’s. It stands to reason He wouldn’t 
be any kinder nor fairer nor saner, if He existed at all, in 
the hereafter than He is here; and the very best of church- 


194 


NATHAN BURKE 


men has occasion daily to wonder at His doings with us. 
You can’t relie on Him a minute. An honest, kind-hearted 
man would do better. Do I shock you ? Of course I shocked 
my father. It’s what I said to him that last flare-up we had 
when he ordered me out of the house. Oh, we’d had hun¬ 
dreds before that; it was wrangle, wrangle all day long ever 
since I was fifteen — too old for any more canings. I don’t 
see how my mother stood it; she’s just as near an angel as 
they’re ever made, I guess. She’s come to me with tears in 
her eyes and begged me wouldn’t I try a little — just try 
— poor mother ! She only wants me to be on good terms 
with father, you know, in the bottom of her heart she doesn’t 
care what I believe, and if I fell as low as Lucifer, she’d love 
me just the same. But how could I go into a church and 
pray ? I’d lose my own self-respect — I’d as lief start out 
to cheat a man in a horse-trade. I said to father: ‘Why, 
don’t you suppose that any sort of God would rather have 
my honest doubt than my unthinking or calculating or hypo¬ 
critical submission ? I can’t fool myself, and you want me 
to try and fool God ! The thing you ask me to worship is 
only superior to myself by its monstrous power; and I think 
it uses its power very ill. I refuse to believe that any crea¬ 
ture so dull and despotic has the disposal of me. I’d rather 
blunder along my own way—I’d rather a hundred times 
be lost and damned forever than save myself by a lie —* 
and then father turned me out of doors. And the worst of 
it is, Nathan, the worst of it is—” Jim would say, turning 
his haggard young face upon his companion in a sad per¬ 
plexity, “that I know the poor old man sorrows in his heart 
over me. He wrestles with the Lord in prayer — yes, sir, 
he gets down on his poor stiff old knees every night, and 
beseeches the gory dummy he believes in to be merciful to 
his erring son. I — I don’t have a very good time in my sin, 
Nat; at least people might do me the justice to acknowledge 
that I’m not going to perdition for sheer enjoyment of wick¬ 
edness. You and Jack Vardaman are the only friends I’ve 
got — and the barkeeper at the Erin-go-Bragh. I suppose 
there’s not a crime in the calendar of which I haven’t been 
accused — or considered capable. There’s not a woman in 
town who’ll speak to me, except Mrs. William Ducey, she’s 
not afraid. She’s a good, sweet woman if she has got that 


A LITTLE MORE ANCIENT HISTORY 195 


nincompoop of a boy. That dear little thing, that little 
Blake girl, she’s too young, I dare say, to understand what 
an unspeakable, free-thinking blackguard I am — she let 
me walk alongside of her on the street the other day. I felt 
as if I ought in conscience to warn her. I have to avoid my 
own mother and sister for fear of getting ’em in trouble with 
father. No, my worst enemy wouldn’t call it a path of roses 
— but I’ve got to walk it, I’ve got to walk it to the end.” 

Jim used to deliver this and like speeches with vast energy, 
striding about their little room, the color splotching his gaunt 
cheeks, his deep-set eyes burning with a conviction as firmly 
rooted and fanatical in its way as his father’s, whom he 
oddly resembled at these moments. Years afterward 
Burke read those strong and sincere words in which another 
and surely a kindred spirit declared: “ . . . had I lived a 
couple of centuries earlier I could have fancied a devil scoff¬ 
ing at me . . . and asking me what profit it was to have 
stripped myself of the hopes and consolations of the mass of 
mankind ? To which my only reply was and is — oh, devil, 
truth is better than much profit.” And reading, perhaps 
understood Sharpless’s attitude a little more clearly. Cer¬ 
tainly Nat liked and respected him from the first, spite of 
the hard names and harder treatment so liberally bestowed 
on him. They lodged together now, but at the time of their 
first formal meeting in Vardaman’s office, Jim was sleeping 
in an attic-room somewhere down on Front Street, and eat¬ 
ing everywhere and anywhere. From the day of his eviction 
he never entered his father’s house, nor asked the Reverend 
Mr. Sharpless for a penny. How he lived nobody knew, 
but that it was not in ease or luxury was abundantly evident 
from poor Jim’s shabby and slip-shod appearance. “Low 
kind of a hang-dog look the fellah has,” George Ducey ob¬ 
served; “evah see such a waistcoat? And his hat — 
b’George, no gentleman would be seen in such a hat! ” Jim, 
however, had work, — writing of some kind, — hard work 
and underpaid, from the newspapers. He used to be up at 
all hours of the night, he prowled about all quarters of the 
town, he knew countless queer outlandish characters. I 
think he had more friends than he suspected; he was in¬ 
domitably gay in his ragged coat,—hopeful, humorous, and 
gallant-tempered. His manners were not at all like George 


196 


NATHAN BURKE 


Ducey’s, yet Burke thought they were the best manners in 
the world, and to see Jim help an old market-woman with her 
basket across the muddy street was a lesson in unofficious 
courtesy. That lean purse of his was at anybody’s service, 
for he certainly took no thought for the morrow; but it seemed 
to Nathan as if his friend invested this hand-to-mouth exist¬ 
ence with a kind of lovable dignity, spreading his sail to the 
winds of Bohemia with an admirable courage and careless¬ 
ness. John Vardaman, who was fond of him, once told 
Burke that he had offered his own home to Jim, even pressed 
it on him, but the young man refused. “ There’s your sister 
— and it might ruin your practice, Jack,” he said. And 
the doctor was forced to admit that there was that dan¬ 
ger. “People were so prejudiced in those days, you re¬ 
member, Burke,” said he; “maybe Jim was right, but 
anyhow, I couldn’t persuade him into it.” So Jim held on 
his way, busy with his everlasting note-book in the legisla¬ 
tive chambers, the county-offices, and police tribunals of 
the Court-house, haunting the taverns, coffee-houses, 
market-stands, pawnshops, hail-fellow-well-met with stage- 
drivers, actors, pedlers, drovers, twopenny politicians, the 
rout of vagabonds with which our little capital city was 
always so well supplied. It was no wonder that with his 
woful linen, his all but empty pockets, his garret, and his 
motley associates Jim should have seemed to his father’s 
world in full career upon the downward path. How could 
a man of such doubtful habits (to say nothing of his known 
opinions) have any but doubtful morals ? People even dis¬ 
cerned something incongruous in the companionship of 
Jim Sharpless and that model character, Mr. Nathan 
Burke. 

“Where on earth did you two first meet?” Vardaman 
had asked us. And Sharpless, with a sonorous gravity, 
informed him, quoting from a flaming letter which had ap¬ 
peared in a recent issue of the Journal that he was “‘prob¬ 
ably aware that notwithstanding all the legislation on the 
subject the haunts of vice in our city are in as active opera¬ 
tion as ever . . . and it has become fashionable with us to 
frequent those Sinks of Infamy, the Billiard-Room 
and the Card-Room, which are bringing—’” Jim went 
on in a pulpit-like intonation of horror — “‘which are bring- 


A LITTLE MORE ANCIENT HISTORY 197 


ing, sir, more ruin on the rising generation than all the 
vices of the brothel ever could — 

“That’s enough,” said the doctor, beginning to laugh; 
“I read that letter. But at what particular sink of infamy 

— since I infer that’s where the acquaintance began — did 
you —?” 

“The Erin-go-Bragh,” Burke told him. And added, 
“The notorious villain, its proprietor, is a very temperate, 
decent sort of man, by the way.” 

“And the barkeeper is my very good friend,” said Sharp¬ 
less; “I lodged in the same house and he has two little boys 
that I used to play with and tell stories to. And at Christ¬ 
mas he invited me downstairs to celebrate with a dish of 
tripe and onions which Mrs. Barkeeper cooked — and cooked 
handsomely, too, without sparing the lard; it was the glory 
that was grease. Sir, it cheered the outcast’s heart — not 
to mention his digestive organs, which would be indelicate.” 

Jim’s garret days were over now — forever over, he used 
to say with a mock-sentimental sigh, and spout, “ Je viens 
revoir I’asile de ma jeunesse” with a pretence of doddering old 
age which was infinitely diverting —^ince Burke had pre¬ 
vailed on him to share a back room at Mrs. Slaney’s with him, 
which came to pass early in their acquaintance. Mrs. Sla- 
ney, whom his dire reputation had not yet reached, thought 
Mr. Sharpless just a lovely young man — but, there, any 
friend of yours, Mr. Burke —! In a little while Jim was as 
familiar with Slaney’s disastrous career, the daguerreotype, 
and the votive altar of immortelles as Burke himself, and 
the widow found him quite as sympathetic. The young 
fellows considered themselves very lucky in their snuggery 
with the smell of dinner reeking up the back stairs. Their 
combined resources furnished them with a somewhat larger 

— in fact an entirely adequate! — supply of coal and kind¬ 
lings which they kept handily in a barrel (sawed down to a 
convenient height, and nicely braced or bound around the 
edge); they had two little Napoleonic iron camp-beds and 
a table and two chairs picked up for a song from some second¬ 
hand dealer. There was a chest of drawers, and a small 
shaving-glass of a rather fearsome greenish hue atop of it. 
Nat’s books were marshalled on a shelf, beneath which one 
might discover, chastely concealed behind a red calico cur- 


198 


NATHAN BURKE 


tain, the wearing apparel of these hermits pendent from a 
few — a very few — pegs, and their boots ranked upon the 
floor. The apartment was a “ bower of innocence and 
beauty,” Jim asserted to Vardaman, when the latter came to 
visit them. Neither of them could afford cigars, so an 
assortment of pipes graced the high, wooden mantle-shelf. 
Over it they hung up Nathan’s faithful old musket with the 
arms of Great Britain and Georgius Rex engraved on its 
stock. “I used to think that was the name of the fellow 
that had owned it,” said Burke, with a laugh, telling his 
friend about Darnell and his old camp-fire days. In the 
middle of the chimney-breast Sharpless set up his most 
valued — to be frank, it was almost his only — possession, 
a drawing of his mother and Mary, taken together when the 
little girl was perhaps eight or nine. Mrs. Sharpless was 
posed in a short-waisted dress, with her pretty black hair 
gathered in a ribbon on top of her head; Mary at her knee 
had a hoop and stick, and embroidered pantalettes and 
spiral curls; the faces and hands were tinted, and all the 
rest done in lead-pencil, every hair in every curl touched in 
painstakingly. 

“It’s not mine really — I thieved it out of my room when 
I came away from the house,” said Jim, remarking the inter¬ 
est with which his friend surveyed this work of art. “You 
don’t mind its being there, do you?” On the contrary, 
Nat liked it exceedingly; perhaps he even took advantage 
of it to invite Jim to further confidences concerning his mother 
and sister. Was it a good likeness of them both? Did 

— ahem — did Jim’s sister, for instance, look at all like that, 
now ? 

“Why, you’ve seen Mary, haven’t you?” Sharpless asked 
in surprise; “she plays the accompaniments at all the con¬ 
certs, and lots of other places, too. You must have seen her 

— kind of a slim girl with dead loads of black hair done up 
in that sort of basket-work way the girls do their hair, with 
powers in it, you know. The picture looks like her still. 
She isn’t exactly pretty — she can’t hold a candle to Mother, 
but she — well, everybody always turns around to look at 
Mary, I don’t know why,” said Jim, knitting his brows over 
this phenomenon. 

Nathan, reddening a little consciously, believed that he 


A LITTLE MORE ANCIENT HISTORY 199 


could have told why. He felt a sort of shame at this 
pumping of his friend, yet, in the name of sense, why not ? 
Why not, I say, ask as many questions — civil, proper ques¬ 
tions — as he chose about Miss Mary Sharpless ? She was 
a very interesting-looking girl, and — and — and Mr. Nat 
would have gone to jail sooner than admit to any one, even 
to Jim, that he had ever given her a thought! 

“Mary’s old — about thirty, I guess,” said the brother, 
ruthlessly; “ she doesn’t look it, though. Mother doesn’t 
look her age, either. It’s queer, because they’ve both had 
rather a hard time, in a kind of woman’s way, I mean, you 
know. Making their own clothes, and father’s shirts, and 
mine, and cobbling things around the house, and taking 
hold in the kitchen when we haven’t any servant, and giving 
music-lessons, and — and all things like that. It’s hard on 
a woman, must be, I think, to have to be planning and 
worrying how to make the money last out, the whole time. 
Mother’s wonderful that way — aren’t you, Ma?” he said, 
addressing the smiling young woman in the picture affec¬ 
tionately; “never you mind — some day I’m going to get 
you everything you want, and you shan’t have to lift a 
finger. Mary’s not so good at it, but then she — well, 
Mary’s kind of off to herself, somehow — sui generis, as Jack 
would say.” 

“How ‘off to herself’?” Nat demanded. 

“Well, just separate, you know, that’s all. I mean it’s 
not very easy to get at Mary, somehow. She’s always on 
the side of the person she’s with at the time; she wouldn’t 
think it good manners to disagree. But anyhow, Mary’s 
very sweet-tempered; she — oh, well, she knows which side 
her bread’s buttered on, and that’s the truth. I’ve heard 
her telling people that their little girl was a darling little 
angel and had a perfectly wonderful talent for music, when 
she knew and I knew and anybody that had any sense would 
know that the youngster couldn’t tell ‘ Yankee Doodle ’ from 
‘ Old Hundred ’! Mary calls it tact; I call it — never mind 
what!” He wagged his hand. “You pays your money 
and you takes your choice,” he said with a laugh. 

“Oh, well, a woman, you know—” 

Jim, who was cleaning a pipe, looked up from the wire 
he was drawing through its stem, under his brows, at his 


200 


NATHAN BURKE 


friend and grinned again. “Oh, well, a woman!” he mirm 
icked. “That’s just your typical attitude, Nat. You’re 
just the kind any woman could wrap around her little fin¬ 
ger if she was smart enough. She’s a woman — so she 
doesn’t have to tell the truth, or act like a reasoning human 
being, or be anything but a divine creature on a pedestal. 
You want to lie down and let ’em walk over you. Why, 
by your own say-so, you’ve stood more bullying and be¬ 
devilling from Mrs. Ducey than you’d ever have dreamed 
of taking from a man. You’re afraid of raising your voice 
for fear of offending their dear little ears, or of touching ’em 
for fear of hurting their dear little bodies, or of looking at 
’em for fear of frightening their dear little —” 

“You shut up!” shouted Nathan, indignant yet laughing; 
“I’m not quite such a sawney as all that!” 

“Sawney? Why, not at all — anything but!” James 
blew out his pipe-stem and tilted back in his chair, roaring 
out the fag-end of a ditty with which he used to enliven the 
Slaney precincts: — 

“ ‘ For his spirit it was tre-men-ju-ous, and fierce to be-HOLD ! 

In a young man bred a carpenter only nineteen years old! ’ 

What I admire about that song is its power of vivid char¬ 
acterization,” he said seriously; “and it is'Curiously appli¬ 
cable to either one of us — 

1 For his spirit it was tre-men-ju-ous—’ ” 

“If you don’t look out, you’ll have the legs off that chair,” 
Nathan warned him anxiously. 

“That’s the kind of thing Mother’s all the time trying 
to fix,” said Jim, arresting himself in the full tide of melody 
and getting up to examine the chair. “I used to stop her 
hammering her poor little thumbs black and blue when I 
was at home. There’s a woman you can put on a pedestal 
as high as you want, Nat,” added the young man, soberly; 
“and my sister’s a mighty nice sort of girl, too, if she is my 
sister,” he went on quickly; “and if she does tell her funny 
little woman-fibs. It’s just as you say, after all, that sort 
of thing doesn’t count with women; they’re brought up to 
it, more or less. I — I don’t want you to think I’d run down 


A LITTLE MORE ANCIENT HISTORY 201 


my own sister, Nat. She’s had a lot to stand on my account. 
It’s a drawback to any girl to have a man for a brother that 
everybody calls a worthless coot. And Mary’s so attractive 
too. She’s been engaged lots of times.” 

“Has she ?” said Nathan, consumed by a dismal curiosity. 
“Is — is she engaged now?” 

“ Why, not that I know of — but then I mightn’t hear, 
anyhow. I can’t go to see her, you know. But there used 
to be somebody spooning around and holding hands with 
Mary all the time. I was forever getting in the way and 
being shunted off. Yes, I’m afraid Mary’s something of 
a flirt; she’s mowed ’em down in her time, I guess. And it’s 
a little strange when you think, as I say, that she’s not quite 
pretty, only out-of-the-way looking,” concluded Jim, medi¬ 
tatively. 

Welladay, it was not so very strange to Nat’s way of 
thinking! And I suppose if he had had it on the most cred¬ 
itable authority that Miss Sharpless was old enough to be his 
mother, that she wore false teeth, false hair, and a wooden 
leg, and had married and divorced half a dozen husbands, he 
would still have continued in his timid and distant worship. 
The young man would not acknowledge it to himself, for 
he would have been obliged to own his fancy both pitiful and 
absurd. He refrained from analyzing the feeling that led him 
out of his road to walk past the Sharpless house, to go and 
sit in a stiff pew at the back of the church and listen by the hour 
to a dreary exposition of the here and the hereafter, to direct 
Jim’s talk upon his sister by endless ridiculous stratagems. 
And what was he to Hecuba ? She hardly knew that he 
existed; she had merely spoken to him once in the angelic 
kindness of her heart, while he — of all things in the world ! 
— was cutting Mrs. William Ducey’s grass. He was not 
much advanced now upon that ignominious labor — a raw 
youth keeping books for Mr. Marsh all day, and befogging 
himself over “Chitty on Contracts” all night! Lord, what 
fools these mortals be! For mercy’s sake, Nathan, knock 
out your pipe and go to bed ! 


CHAPTER XV 

Which is Short and rather Serious 

The two friends used to see a good deal of Dr. John 
Vardaman these days, either in his State Street eyrie, when 
they dropped in of an evening, or in their own quarters at 
Mrs. Slaney’s, when the doctor came to see them in an off 
hour. He made his home with an elderly, unmarried sister, 
so Burke understood, in a house, some way out on Town 
Street; their father had been an English gentleman of birth 
and means, at one time an officer of PakenhanVs, who had 
settled in this country after the late war, and died about 
1830, I believe. All this Sharpless told Nathan, for Varda¬ 
man himself never mentioned his family except in the most 
matter-of-fact fashion or hinted at his fine old descent, of 
which, as the world goes, it would have been natural enough 
for him to be quite proud. He was very tall, with that 
kind of commanding homeliness which is sometimes better 
than good looks, prematurely graying hair, and — Burke 
used to think — the most pleasant speaking-voice and enun¬ 
ciation ever heard, though he could not sing a note. To 
hear Jack read was a real treat; he did it without any sort 
of dramatic affectations, yet with a perfect mastery of ex¬ 
pression and an absolute understanding of the author. 
For the rest, he was an ironical, rather quiet fellow, given 
to moods of prodigious cynicism and melancholy, as young 
men sometimes are, when he would offer many stinging 
criticisms of society, politics, the other sex, and the world at 
large, being all the while the most tolerant and tender¬ 
hearted of men. He was some years older than either of the 
others, and had had a much wider experience of life, having 
studied his profession in eastern cities, and walked the 
hospitals of Edinburgh and Leipzig. People used to wonder 
that John Vardaman, whose father had left him plenty of 
money to live comfortably without doing a stroke of work, 
should yet have voluntarily and in fact most eagerly elected 

202 


WHICH IS SHORT AND RATHER SERIOUS 203 


to follow one of the hardest of professions. It was a point 
of view with which Burke, for one, was never in sympathy. 
Surely to do some one thing well is the highest pleasure a 
man can have, and the work we love is the only play. Nat, 
to whom the sight of suffering, whether of man or beast, was 
intolerable, who would sooner have dug ditches or carried 
a hod than been a doctor, always felt an unmeasured respect 
for this greatest and most beautiful of vocations. Mr. 
Burke never had the ill-luck to meet a physician whom he 
could not like, beginning with John, who was a born doctor, 
I think. He was very successful and might have made a 
huge income for those days, if he had not — we suspected 
— done so much in charity. Somebody told him one day 
in Burke’s presence that all he needed to make him perfect 
was a wife — “Every young physician ought to marry as a 
stroke of business. A wife and one or two babies, Varda¬ 
nian— why, it’s money in a doctor’s pocket—’’said this 
well-meaning person. It was a piece of jocularity which 
Vardaman, contrary to his custom, received with a very 
grum countenance and the brief answer which turneth 
away fun, so that Burke was struck and interested and in¬ 
quired privately of Sharpless afterwards what was amiss ? 

“Well, I guess that sort of talk cuts a little too near the 
bone with Jack,” said the latter, in a vague metaphor; and al¬ 
though Jim, in his exile, still preserved a sort of underground 
communication with Society, and may very well have heard 
all about the doctor’s infelicities, he would say no more, not 
being inclined to gossip, nor did Burke press him, for 
that matter. 

It was from Dr. Vardaman that they heard some time 
in the fall of Mrs. Ducey’s illness; there was an influenza 
going about, of which both Burke and Sharpless were obliged 
to take their share, the latter’s cough attacking him so fiercely 
and hanging on so long (for Jim was thin, underfed, and not 
of a strong build) as to give his friend some anxiety. The 
doctor came and dosed them with the stalwart remedies of 
the day; he described with a good deal of humor the disas¬ 
trous experiments of some of his patients with New London 
Liver Pills, Salter’s Ginseng Panacea — Lord knows what 
quack nostrums. People had a kind of mania for trying 
these swindling mixtures; the newspapers always exhibited 


204 


NATHAN BURKE 


three or four solid pages of their advertisements. Mrs. 
Ducey was one of the victims. “She was a pretty sick 
woman by the time I got there,” said the doctor, seriously. 
“Little Francie Blake was in attendance, and a remarkable- 
looking girl — remarkably handsome, I mean, in a calico gown 
and a cap over her black hair — a trying sort of costume, 
but she looked well in it. She must be a relative — who 
do you suppose it is, Jim ? I thought I knew all of them — 
but those southern kinships! There’s somebody new turn¬ 
ing up all the time; Aunt Coralie’s third son’s step-daughter, 
who hasn’t got anywhere to live, poor child, now that Sec¬ 
ond-Cousin Oliver Randolph is dead, and so has to come up 
North and make her home with Fortieth-Cousin Anne 
Ducey! That’s the way it goes — God bless ’em all! ” said 
John, with some feeling. “This young woman had rather 
a southern look — or call it Oriental — gypsy — anything 
you choose that’s alien and picturesque. She—” 

“I know her. Her name’s Darnell — don’t you remem¬ 
ber?” interrupted Nat, coloring a little with the guilty 
thought that he ought to know more about Nance. He 
told the doctor her story. “Did — did she seem contented 

— and — and happy, Jack?” he asked in a strange appre¬ 
hension. He promised himself, for the twentieth time, to 
go and see her. 

“Contented and happy ?” said Vardaman, with a puzzled 
look; “why, I never noticed. How could I tell, anyhow? 
I should think she would be in such a good home. She 
makes a fine nurse, very deft, lightfooted, and intelligent. 
And patient, I could see that. Between ourselves it’s not 
an easy business, nursing; people are so apt to be fretful and 
imperious. But this girl — what did you say her name was 

— Nance? — struck me as most devoted. She waited on 
me and watched Mrs. Ducey like a cat. She’s rather curious, 
rather interesting, Nathan — I’m glad you told me about 
her. Beautiful woman, isn’t she? And she looked very 
lovely and tender with Mrs. Ducey—” 

“I’m sure little Miss Blake would be that too, she — she’s 
that kind of girl, I know,” said Sharpless, abruptly and some¬ 
what heatedly, so that Burke looked at him, taken by sur¬ 
prise. 

“Eh? Francie? Oh, yes, Francie’s a nice child. But I 


WHICH IS SHORT AND RATHER SERIOUS 205 


was going to tell you the first thing I saw was your old ac¬ 
quaintance, Nat, Vaughn’s Vegetable Lithontriptic Mix¬ 
ture, a giant bottle of that elixir of life on the dressing-table! 
It’s enough to try the patience of Job,” declared the doctor, 
vigorously; “people — intelligent, educated people that 
ought to know better — catch a cold — cough a little — 
fever — chills — sore throat — no appetite, and all the rest 
of it, and instead of going to bed sensibly and sending for the 
doctor, they fribble around with these vile stuffs that would 
ruin the constitution of a hippopotamus. They spend ten 
times the money and — ” he interrupted himself with a 
grin— “run actually ten times the risk they would even if 
they had the most inexperienced and least capable of doc¬ 
tors —” 

“ To say nothing of that sound medical authority, John 
Vardaman, M.D.,” said Jim. “Pooh — you’re jealous! ” 

“Mr. Sharpless,” said Vardaman, ponderously, “you will 
retract that statement, or I’ll poultice you within an inch of 
your life. I’ll mustard-plaster you, sir, into a belief in that 
warm place which you insist don’t exist — ” 

“It would be taking a great deal of mustard to a very little 
meat, I think,” said Jim, glancing down over his lean anat¬ 
omy; “but who said I was going to employ you? No, sir, 
I’ll take—” he snatched up the paper from the table and 
read, “I’ll take the Ginseng Panacea, ‘which cured Mr. 
Jukes of Licking Summit and five members of his family of 
a cough, two of them of long standing. Mr. Jukes also had 
an aggravated case of dropsy. Eight bottles made him a well 
man! He is now a robust farmer!’ It doesn’t say what 
he was before the eight bottles.” 

“A chicken-thief, probably,” said the doctor. “‘Bless 
thee, Bottom, thou art translated!’ Your miserable jour¬ 
nals are responsible for spreading these lies, Jim. I wonder 
you have the face to write for them.” 

“By heavens, I wouldn’t have any face at all if I didn’t 
write for them,” said Jim, and laughed and set himself 
coughing desperately; “I’ve got to keep body and soul to¬ 
gether somehow,” he gasped out when the fit was over. 
“Never mind, Jack, I’ll show you what I can do in the cause 
of righteousness.” And he forthwith sat down and wrote 
the editor of the Journal in the character of a subscriber, 


206 


NATHAN BURKE 


extolling the virtues of Ramrod’s Elixir of Gridiron , which 
had cured its tens of thousands of every known disease, being 
a medicine borrowed by the pioneers from the Indian squaws 
who made a decoction by boiling their husband’s rifle-bar¬ 
rels, etc. It appeared within a day or two and made every¬ 
body laugh; but Vardaman, meeting Nathan on the street, 
took him aside with a grave face and urged him to have an 
eye on Jim. “I suppose you’re the only person on earth 
who can do anything with him or for him, Burke,” said the 
doctor, visibly worried; “his father, you know — I — I 
don’t know what to do about the business. He’s really very 
sick. That spirit of his keeps him up and going around; 
he’ll go till he drops. He will work when Lord knows you 
or I or anybody that knows him at all would lend him money 
or do anything for him. Make him stay in the house — 
keep him out of the weather if you can — at night, you 
know — all the time for that matter. He ought to have 
good strengthening food, and hasn’t he got any warmer 
clothes ? Damn it, why will people mistreat themselves 
this way!” said John, in a temper, with his kind concern. 
Burke promised, in alarm; indeed, he had been up half the 
night before, trying to help his friend, in a clumsy way, 
through the paroxysms of coughing. Mrs. Slaney herself 
appeared toward the small hours, feebly tapping at their 
door, with a candle and her hair in curl-papers, and a purple 
calico double-gown clutched about her meagre shoulders — 
a most lugubrious and disheartening figure. “Oh, my, ain’t 
it awful the way that poor young man’s been suffering?” 
she sighed, leaning against the door-jamb, as Nathan 
shivered before her in his night-shirt and pantaloons. And 
this being apparently all she had to offer in advice or assis¬ 
tance, Nat finally persuaded her to go away. He began to 
understand Slaney’s behavior. 

That same day, a raw and rainy winter day, he came upon 
Jim whom he had solemnly engaged not to leave the house, up 
and out in his thin old surtout, with his sunken cheeks and 
fever-bright eyes, walking along by Francie Blake of all 
people in the world, carrying some bundle of hers and talking 
very gayly. Little Francie’s face flushed all over as she saw 
Nat coming towards them; she stopped short in an odd and 
sweet confusion, looking from one young man to the other. 


WHICH IS SHORT AND RATHER SERIOUS 207 


“We were talking about you, sir,” Sharpless cried out, and 
Francie blushed rosier than ever. Francie was always a 
diffident child, and although she was now, as Nathan noted 
with a start of surprise, transformed all at once from a fat, 
stubby, little girl into a tall, rather thick-waisted, and gang¬ 
ling young woman, — maid — miss, whatever may be the 
proper term for females at this awkward age, —he still could 
not think of her as anything but a child. He went up and 
took the bundle away from Jim, sternly adjuring him to go 
home; Jim surrendered with some kind of laughing protest, 
and went off coughing. He wavered in his walk, he trem¬ 
bled with ague from head to foot; Nathan looked after him 
with wretched misgivings. He walked along gloomily with 
Francie the familiar way to the Ducey house. Aunt Anne 
was very sick, the child told him; like Mr. Sharpless, only 
she didn’t think Aunt Anne’s cough was quite so bad. She 
thought Mr. Sharpless was very nice — why did people say 
such things about him ? Nathan growled a savage explana¬ 
tion, his heart full of pain and perplexity. It was not 
until they reached the door that he thought of Nance Dar¬ 
nell, remembering that he had not even asked about her. 
Francie said that Nance was well; she hadn’t had the influenza 
at all; she was lovely to Aunt Anne, taking entire charge of 
her. “She’s stronger than I am — she can lift Aunt Anne 
right up and turn her over, you know. And she’s just as 
gentle as can be, too,” said the girl, looking up at him, with 
the bundle which he had returned to her arms as they stood 
within the door, with her great, serious,child’s eyes. “Don’t 
you want to see Nance, Nathan?” 

Nat hadn’t time, he must get back to the store — it 
seemed as if he never did have time, he thought, troubled. 
“Do you think she’s happy here, Francie? Does she get 
along with — with everybody?” he asked her earnestly. 

“Ye-yes — that is—” she looked at him distressfully, 
her loyal little heart hesitating; “of course it was a little 
hard for her at first. There were so many things for her to 
learn and Aunt Anne — Aunt Anne didn’t quite understand 
— but she’s been here over six months now, you know, and 
she’s learned ever so much. She says herself she knows a 
great deal more than when she came. I’ve shown her some 
things — she said she liked me to,” said Francie, shyly. 


208 


NATHAN BURKE 


Nathan thanked her from his heart; he felt a momentary 
impulse — which he fortunately controlled, remembering 
her lengthening skirts — to pick Francie up and hug her. 
There was something inexpressibly wholesome and comfort¬ 
able about this little girl — for so she appeared to him, in 
spite of her grown-up costume which Mrs. Ducey had had 
crinolined in the extreme of the fashion, her bonnet with 
artificial flowers like a young lady’s, her brown alpaca 
pelisse ornamented with those remarkable flutings and 
quillings with which women decked themselves in those 
days. Her thick hair was smoothly braided up like Miss 
Sharpless’s; she wore a white collar and a round brooch of 
black enamel rimmed with pearls, wherein some of the 
family hair was enshrined after the pious taste of the times. 
Nathan observed these signs of maturity almost mechanically 
yet came away relieved by the knowledge that Francie had 
reached an age when she must count for something in the 
household — even in a household so despotically ridden as 
Mrs. Ducey’s; and that Nance had her sympathy and un¬ 
derstanding. More than ever he felt a man’s helpless¬ 
ness before this problem; the thing that looked so simple to 
the casual view was to him infinitely intricate. Here was 
an untrained, ignorant, high-spirited girl taken into a good 
home, fed, clothed, educated, helped, and sheltered in every 
way — what more could anybody ask ? On the face of it, 
Nance was unusually lucky, the Duceys unusually kind. 
Yet when he thought of Nance at all — which, I am afraid, 
had not been often — some instinct shouted in his inner "ear 
that it was impossible for her to be contented or satisfied — 
farcically and unhappily impossible. George’s lively anec¬ 
dotes, Francie’s own reluctant and dubious face, let in a dis¬ 
quieting illumination. But then, why did she stay? He 
must see her, talk to her, find out for himself. Darnell’s 
memory reproached him. 

Alas for these good resolutions ! There is a bitter truth 
in that hard old saying that he that will not when he may, 
he cannot when he would. Even had Nathan kept his 
promises to himself, I do not know that he would have ac¬ 
complished much with his reasoning and his sermonizing and 
his self-important kindness — but that does not excuse him 
in his own eyes. One might fancy Fate stepping in to say: 


WHICH IS SHORT AND RATHER SERIOUS 209 


“Sir, you would direct this young woman’s life? Nay, but 
you have lost your chance. You would shoulder this respon¬ 
sibility ? Rest easy, it shall be removed. You would keep 
your promise to her dead father? And why did you not 
think of that earlier and to better purpose ? The time is 
over-past—” How many men have read themselves this 
weary lecture? With the best will in the world, Nathan 
found he could do nothing for Nance now; the first of the 
year approached and they were ceaselessly busy at the store; 
and a millstone anxiety about Sharpless weighted him down. 
For Jim wa^sick enough now; there was a day when Burke 
went home from his figuring to find his friend huddled in the 
bed, chattering strange words with what little voice his cough 
left him. Nathan (whom the poor fellow looked at without 
knowing) stood over him, listening with a dreadful sinking 
of the heart, trying to calm him. “ Je viens revoir —” 
“Dans un grenier qu’on est bien —” Jim gabbled on with the 
secret and silly mirth of delirium. The other had only the 
slightest acquaintance with the language, and: “Good 
God!” he thought in terror; “will he die this way, without 
knowing me, without a word I can understand!” But 
towards morning the fever mercifully abated enough for Jim 
to come back to reason. “Don’t tell Mother, Nat; don’t 
let her get scared about me. I’m all right, I’ll get up pretty 
soon,” he said. 

There began a season upon which Burke to the end of his 
days will look back with cringing. The doctor came; Na¬ 
than got in a nurse — an old woman who smelled of the 
whiskey-bottle and was none too clean, but he must have 
somebody. Burke himself sat up at night; when he could, 
Jack Vardaman relieved him. In spite of Jim’s protest — 
which he constantly repeated in his brief moments of con¬ 
sciousness — Nat thought his family ought to know. “I’ve 
told the old man. I dare say he calls it a judgment!” said 
the doctor, scornfully. Heavens, what hours did they pass 
in that dingy room: Jim with his wild face covered with a 
half-grown beard, turning, turning on the lean, hard pillow; 
bottles, spoons, linen rags, all the dismal tools of sickness 
strewed about; the light shaded with one of Nathan’s law¬ 
books— Somebody on Equity — propped up open around 
the candlestick; the sallow dawn coming in through the 


210 


NATHAN BURKE 


dirty window-pane. Nat has spent the night sitting up 
across a couple of chairs; the shabby silver watch, that he 
bought of the pawnbroker for a few dollars, is open beside 
him to time the patient’s doses, and he rouses with a start 
to find it five o’clock, and another day — Thursday ? Or is 
it Friday? The town clocks are striking, the milk-carts can 
be heard in the streets, there is a cock crowing in the stable- 
yard at the corner; and Jim, turning again, asks for water 
in his weak voice, and says he guesses he’ll get up, Nat — 
guesses he’ll get up — guesses — and make that hump¬ 
backed fellow at the foot of the bed stop making faces and go 
away, confound him! It sometimes seemed to Burke as if 
he had not slept for years — as if he could not if he tried. 
He used to go down to his desk red-eyed, but broad awake, 
and work all day with a steadiness that amazed him when he 
recalled it afterwards. His head was clear even when his 
haggard look startled the other clerks. They passed the 
word around that Jim Sharpless was very low. Nathan 
heard them buzzing the news in corners with a futile anger. 
It was old Marsh himself who came to him one day and said: 
“Go home, Burke, go home — you ain’t fit for this. Ain’t 
he any better?” with so much of rough kindness in his man¬ 
ner that the tears came into the young man’s eyes. He was 
almost worn out. He got down from his stool and went to 
get his coat, and as he did so, Mr. Ducey, coming from the 
front of the store with an important face, told him: — 

“There’s somebody asking for you, a lady — um — if 
I were you Burke, I —” 

Nathan went out, dully wondering; and the lady — a 
little lady in a gray dress — who was moving about ner¬ 
vously amongst the sugar-barrels and bales of hides, put back 
the veil she wore over her plain bonnet, and came up to him 
with a piteous pale face and her small hands in shabby 
gloves held out, fluttering. 

“Mr. Burke?” she said with a great effort at calmness. 
And then in a heart-breaking voice: “My son — my son 
Jim — won’t you take me to him, please?” 


CHAPTER XVI 


Longer than the Last and somewhat more Cheerful 

It was with an immeasurable relief and thankfulness that 
Nathan took Mrs. Sharpless on his arm along the streets 
and back to the boarding-house and the room where her 
boy lay. And whether poor Jim had actually passed the 
turning-point in that grave journey on which he was em¬ 
barked, and was on the mend, ever so fitfully and faintly 
already; or whether his mother’s coming decided the event, 
we never knew; Vardaman himself said he could not tell. 
But Burke, for one, has always believed the latter; it is hard 
to think that her presence did not have something to do with 
his recovery. She was so brave, so patient, so resolutely 
hopeful; she radiated perseverance and good cheer. Nathan 
never saw her break down but that one time in the office, 
nor shed another tear, although the sight of the comfortless 
quarters, of the nurse (the drunken old wretch was sleeping 
sprawled out on Nathan’s bed in a hideous disorder when 
they reached the house), of Jim disfigured by sickness, quite 
out of his head so that he did not recognize her at all, and 
croaking, “For his spirit it was tre-men-ju-ous—” in a 
lamentable voice — all this must have wrung the mother’s 
heart. Mrs. Sharpless never made a single comment, nor 
even looked one; she took off her black bonnet and veil — 
garments which appear to fulfil every woman’s idea of 
disguise, or the incognito — and sat down beside Jim’s bed. 
And Burke, having turned out the nurse as gently as he 
could, and fetched Mrs. Slaney (who, indeed, had shown 
herself all along very willing and well-meaning, and flustered 
and useless), was made himself to go and take some rest in a 
room good-naturedly loaned by another lodger. The young 
man protested; he was quite sure that he couldn’t close an 
eye, — nevertheless he did, in sheer exhaustion, and slept 

211 


212 


NATHAN BURKE 


heavily for hours, waking at last towards dusk with a start 
and the frightful consciousness of duty neglected. He hur¬ 
ried to the sick room in a miserable tremor, and peeping in, 
saw Mrs. Sharpless still in her chair by the bed; and Jim 
asleep, peacefully and naturally asleep for the first time in 
days. The room was full of the clean winter twilight, red 
through the west window; the fire burned clear on a tidy 
hearth; there were white sheets on their two poor iron beds, 
a white cover over the squalid table. And there sat Mrs. 
Sharpless, with her soft skirts falling about her, her pretty, 
sleek, dark hair — there was scarcely a thread of gray in it — 
her bright, kind face, a book open on her knee — it was the 
Bible — like, I swear, a little gray angel, an angel of com¬ 
fort and of healing. She looked up with a smile as swift and 
brilliant as Jim’s own, and laid her finger on her lips, as 
Nathan crept in. “Hush, the doctor has been here — and 
he says he’s better!” Burke went up to the bed, and looked 
at the sick man, more moved than he would have had her 
see; he had not known how mortal was the fear that hung 
over him until it was a little lessened. And I trust there 
was nothing unmanly in his emotion, nor in the regard he 
felt for his friend. Passing the love of woman — ! Mrs. 
Sharpless took his hand. “Sir, you have been very kind — 
the people here have told me — the doctor told me — you 
have been very good—” she said. And that was all; nor 
was there ever any more talk of thanks or obligation between 
them. I believe neither one ever thought of it. 

Burke did not know upon what terms the Reverend Mr. 
Sharpless had allowed his wife to come and tend her son. 
It was not unlikely that she had done so without leave and 
in the face of her husband’s displeasure. “ Sharpless senior 
was a hard old man,” Jack Vardaman used to say, shaking 
his head in wonder and a kind of commiseration; “a hard, 
stern, self-righteous old man. When I went to tell him about 
Jim’s illness, I felt as I were dashing myself against a stone 
wall. Possibly I didn’t make it clear to him how sick Jim 
was; he may not have understood. But a man of that 
temper to preach the Gospel of charity and long-suffering 
and tenderness! It’s cruel and absurd at once. For all 
that, I could see something admirable in his unflinching 
consistency; the way he ground down and obliterated every 


LONGER AND SOMEWHAT MORE CHEERFUL 213 


vestige of fatherly feeling from his heart. Jim was a sinner, 
in open rebellion against the Almighty — and that he was 
this sinner’s father was an accident which he was determined 
should in no way influence him. There was a Roman 
strength of character in the old man; you couldn’t but re¬ 
spect him even when that conscientious inhumanity of his 
angered and repelled you most. It’s easy to see Jim came 
rightly by that iron streak that kept him adhering to his 
wrong-headed notions. I believe the martyrs were made 
of that stuff. Old Sharpless was capable of thrusting his 
hand into the flames, and crying out: ‘This hath offended!’ 
When it comes to religious matters, there’s a mighty faint 
boundary-line between persecutors and persecuted; give 
either side the upper hand and history shows you what will 
happen. It’s a great thing to be able to lay down hope and 
love and ambition and everything that goes to make life 
tolerable, and at last life itself for the sake of a conviction. 
How many of us can do it ? I go to church and try to live 
Christianly; but rather than be burned alive, wouldn’t I 
have offered meat to the idols? I’m afraid so — I’m afraid 
so! Old Sharpless wouldn’t; he would have gone to the 
stake for his belief. And Jim would go to the stake for his 
unbelief — or whatever you please to call it. What differ¬ 
ence does it make in the abstract which of them is right ? 
All your prejudices fade before facts like that; you can’t 
help feeling a little admiration and a little pity for both men.” 

This estimate was pronounced by the doctor years after¬ 
wards, when the Reverend Mr. Sharpless had been long gone 
to his rest under the plain granite tombstone in Greenwood 
Cemetery, and had found out, perhaps, that that Power 
whose awful judgments he preached so unsparingly is said 
also to send rain upon the just and unjust alike, nor lets the 
sparrow fall unheeded. Nat Burke, to whom it fell to carry 
to the reverend gentleman the news of his son’s continued 
illness and of Mrs. Sharpless’s decision to remain by him, 
was not so lenient as Vardaman. He thought the elder 
Sharpless a narrow and merciless old bigot; and went up the 
path to the parsonage door in a very sour and contemptuous 
mood. The fact that this same bigot was Mary Sharpless’s 
father weighed no more with the young man than the fact 
that he was Jim’s father; Nat was always able to think of 


214 


NATHAN BURKE 


Mr. Sharpless in a certain detachment, there was so little 
of the natural man about him. Could he ever have been a 
boy and played with a top? Or a young man and gone 
a-courting ? There was a quaint impossibility in the notion. 
A subdued servant-girl came to the door and said the minis¬ 
ter was in; and showed Nathan into the study. It was a 
sombre little place with drab-painted walls, a steel-engrav¬ 
ing of John Knox — Calvin — some such worthy, in a nar¬ 
row, hard, black wooden frame (appropriate enough, Nat 
thought) over the mantelpiece, and two gloomy black horse¬ 
hair chairs for the parson and the penitent — for that is 
what the attitude and atmosphere of this room suggested. 
It had a monastic look of retirement and discipline. Mr. 
Sharpless rose from the table where he seemed to have been 
meditating his Sunday address and taking notes. On the 
sheet of foolscap lying there, Nathan saw the text written 
out in the divine’s big, black, powerful hand: “Thus saith 
the Lord: Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and 
maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the 
Lord.” 

“You wished to speak to me, sir?” said the minister, bend¬ 
ing on his visitor a look so like Jim’s in its straightforward 
scrutiny that Burke was momentarily startled. In fact, 
the father and son were much alike in appearance, being 
both tall, spare men with a probable reserve of strength and 
endurance hidden under a not very robust exterior. Nathan 
briefly stated his name and errand, which the Reverend Mr. 
Sharpless heard without change of countenance, sitting with 
his hands loosely joined, and his steady eyes fastened on 
the young man; he had a long, thin, delicate, and nervous 
hand, the very model of Jim’s. 

“He has been terribly sick, Dr. Sharpless,” said Burke, 
earnestly, conscious of some impalpable barrier, mental or 
spiritual, between himself and the other. The older man 
was not hostile; he was imperturbable, hopelessly aloof. 
“He is not out of danger yet, although Ja — Dr. Varda¬ 
nian tells us there is hope — and — and Mrs. Sharpless 
wants to stay with him —” 

“It is natural,” said the father, gravely; “I should be the 
last man in the world to cross that desire, Mr. Burke. My 
daughter will take charge of the house. I should be much 


LONGER AND SOMEWHAT MORE CHEERFUL 215 


obliged if you would assure Mrs. Sharpless that — that she 
has no cause for anxiety about anything here, in short. Ah 

— who has been attending to James — nursing him, I mean 

— previous to this?” 

“The doctor and I,” said Nat, detecting, or fancying he 
detected, a painful interest underlying these formal words; 
“he wasn't neglected, Dr. Sharpless. Of course it wasn't 
anything like what his mother can do for him. I can't tell 
you how relieved we were when she came. The whole place 
looks different, and Jim seemed to get better at once.” 

“I inquired,” said the minister, stonily, “because I wish 
to say, Mr. Burke, that any expenses you may have incurred, 
whether for doctor's bills, or nurses, or medicines, or your 
own loss of time, I will, of course, discharge. You will make 
a memorandum of them, I trust, and let me know?” 

“The doctor and druggist will send their bills to you, if 
you wish it, and if Jim consents, I have no doubt,” said 
Burke, getting up, and it may be implying unconsciously by 
his manner his inward conviction that Jim never would 
consent in the world. The other rose, too, arresting him 
by a gesture as Nat moved toward the door. 

“You, of course, must know — you must understand, Mr. 
Burke, if you know my son and have lived in intimacy with 
him,” said Sharpless, with an effort, “that he has fallen into 
error — has turned against Divine authority and wisdom in 
a way I cannot, as a believing Christian and an ordained 
minister, countenance?” 

“I know that you and Jim have had a — a difference of 
opinion,” said Burke, wretchedly embarrassed. 

11 Opinion!” ejaculated the Reverend Mr. Sharpless — 
and Nathan, for once, recognized that he stood in the pres¬ 
ence of an intolerance differing not at all in degree or kind 
from that which lit the fires of Smithfield. As savagely 
fanatical as it was, as secure in its own conceit, it rebuked 
the young man; in comparison the large humanity and 
liberality of mind on which, perhaps, he plumed himself a 
little, appeared mere spiritual laziness, lax and feeble good¬ 
nature. “Opinion!” said Mr. Sharpless again. He laid 
his hand (so like Jim's!) on the desk beside him, and Nathan 
saw it tremble. “But perhaps you yourself think as he 
does ?” he said with a distressing attempt at irony. 


216 


NATHAN BURKE 


“No, I can’t say that,” said Burke, honestly, stirred in¬ 
explicably by a feeling of pity and sincere respect; “I’m — 
I’m not quite sure of my beliefs, Mr. Sharpless, but I don’t 
agree with Jim. We don’t argue about it — we let it alone. 
He is my friend — that’s enough for me.” 

“Young man,” said the minister, solemnly, “do you call him 
your friend when you know that his path is the way of hell, going 
down by the chambers of death? Can you see that, and not put 
out a hand to save him? Do you call that friendship? Or 
are not you yourself one of those to whom the Lord spoke 
through the apostle; ‘I know thy works that thou art 
neither hot nor cold. So then because thou art lukewarm and 
neither hot nor cold, I will spue thee out of my mouth.’ ” 

“I may be,” said Burke, humbly enough; “but, sir, as un¬ 
certain as I am — I — I’m not afraid of God. 1 I can’t talk 
to Jim or persuade him — I don’t know how, and I wouldn’t 
if I could. I’m no better man than Jim. I think he is the 
bravest and brightest and kindest I ever knew. Who am I to 
tell him or anybody what’s right or wrong? I’m not quite 
sure where it says in the Bible something about knowing 
people by their fruits,” said the young fellow, hesitating, 
and feeling himself, as the other had intimated, a pretty 
shabby sort of Christian; “but we haven’t much other way 
of judging, it seems to me.” And having delivered this un¬ 
conscionably long speech with a hot color and some stammer¬ 
ing, Mr. Burke took up his hat and edged toward the door, 
devoutly thankful that the interview was ended. In fact the 
Reverend Mr. Sharpless allowed him to depart without 
further argument, whether in indifference, or discouragement, 
or with the belief entertained by some theologians — as I’ve 
understood — that he might be saved anyhow through in¬ 
vincible ignorance. Except one other, it was the only inti¬ 
mate conversation — if one may even call it that — Burke 
ever had with Jim’s father; who, nevertheless, remembered 
the young man’s face, and saluted him with a grave and 
scrupulous courtesy whenever they chanced to meet. 

1 Someone has scrawled in the margin: 

“ He’s a Good Fellow, and ’twill all be well! ” 

The handwriting is not Burke’s, and we cannot identify it. There is 
nothing to show that the general was at all familiar with Omar.—M.S.W. 


LONGER AND SOMEWHAT MORE CHEERFUL 217 


Mrs. Sharpless now taking almost entire charge of Jim ex¬ 
cept for a few hours night and morning, and his condition 
rapidly bettering, the room assumed a cheerfulness of aspect 
that warmed the heart. The boots and pipes vanished. It 
was the lady’s own neat skirts and aprons that hung behind 
the red calico drapery. The white covers stayed miracu¬ 
lously white; there were no rolls of lint on the floor, no dust 
on the ridges of the furniture. Truly these things had not 
irked the young men much before, but Mr. Burke noted not 
without surprise that it was possible to be comfortable and 
yet keep straightened up — which is the proper technical 
term, I am given to understand. Jim’s mother accomplished 
these reforms without any kind of talk or bustle, something 
which must be all but unheard-of for one woman in another 
woman’s house. But Mrs. Sharpless actually made a friend 
of Mrs. Slaney! She even went down into the slimy, grimy 
kitchen and cocked little messes for Jim without antagoniz¬ 
ing the landlady. I doubt whether Mrs. Ducey could have 
done it. 

“I’m — I’m afraid it ain’t what you’ve been used to, 
ma’am,” faltered the widow, timidly, the first time Mrs. 
Sharpless sat down to her slatternly dinner-table. Good 
Lord, that dreadful table — with the red-checked cotton 
table-cloth — with the fly-blown pewter castor in the mid¬ 
dle — with the sticky stone-ware plates — with the fried 
steak swimming in sepia-colored gravy — with the extraordi¬ 
nary translucent, glistening gray, boiled potatoes ! “ Every¬ 

thing is as nice as can be, Mrs. Slaney, and I’m sure my boy 
is very lucky to be in such a good home with such kind friends,” 
said the little lady, gallantly. And the livery-stable keeper 
from the corner, who was boarding with us just then, stopped 
cleaning his nails to stare at her across the table. He never 
swore once during Mrs. Sharpless’s stay! Everybody left off 
abusing the food, and poking questionable pleasantries at the 
down-at-heel mulatto girl who waited on us. Mrs. Sharpless 
never said or did a thing in reproof or disapproval; but, in¬ 
deed, coarseness and vulgarity slunk away abashed from that 
brave, pure presence. Burke took an absurd and unwar¬ 
ranted pride in the spectacle; he wanted to cry out boastfully: 
“Look at her! This is my friend’s mother. Did you ever 
see a finer lady, or a kinder heart ? ” 


218 


NATHAN BURKE 


During this time Nat himself was camping light-heartedly in 
an unoccupied room of Mrs. Slaney’s, which was a“grenier” 
indeed — up the attic stairs and unplastered, with the walls 
and ceiling displaying that reverse view of a shingled roof 
with cobwebbed rafters and the points of ten-penny-nails 
bristling through, which the young gentleman's previous 
experience of stable-lofts had rendered not unfamiliar to him. 
His pallet on the floor was next-door neighbor to a bushel or so 
of black walnuts spread out in a desiccating mat of hulls; and 
the odd crannies were cluttered with old shoes, old bonnets, 
old lanterns, and teakettles out of commission, old broken 
and banged china and tin-ware and — blush, oh ye virgins, 
and ye matrons hide your faces! — a weird collection of 
derelict corsets and hoop-skirts and nameless articles padded 
with hair and cotton — enough for tw r o or three Mrs. Slaneys, 
you would have thought. Nathan, who had been a handy, 
inventive lad in his backwoods days, fashioned a mouse-trap 
out of one of the hoop-skirts, an engine which he found ex¬ 
ceedingly useful in those regions. He borrowed an excitable 
little terrier of one of the boys at the store; and the time 
being ripe, went down into the back yard, and let loose his 
captives under the quivering nose and three-legged, trembling 
anxiety of the terrier, who incontinently fell upon them and 
smote them hip and thigh to the great content and entertain¬ 
ment of all the small boys of the neighborhood; and with Jim 
himself, who could sit up a short while now every day, looking 
on from the window above and applauding with his weak 
hands. “ Mother couldn’t stand the spectacle,” he ex¬ 
plained as Nathan, reentering the room, looked about for that 
lady. “ I suppose she was thinking about the widows and 
orphans. Anyway the first thing I knew she and Mary had 
disappeared. They are probably sitting with their fingers 
in their ears and their faces to the wall in some remote cor¬ 
ner.” 

“She and Mary ?” repeated Burke, in a mighty inward 
commotion; “you mean your — your sister ?” 

“Yes. She’s here — didn’t you see her ? She came in just 
now. You must have been dowrn in the yard already, though. 
What’s queer about it, Nat ? Why wouldn’t Mary come to 
see me? Father wouldn’t make her stay away any more than 
he would mother, you know,” said Jim, in that tone of de- 


LONGER AND SOMEWHAT MORE CHEERFUL 219 


fence which, oddly and inconsistently enough, one might have 
thought, he always adopted at any criticism of his father 
except his own. 

“I— I didn’t know —” stuttered the other, glancing ner¬ 
vously at the mirror; “I — I didn’t think — I guess I’d 
better get out, hadn’t I ? She’ll want to have you to her¬ 
self, I expect—” 

“Get out — stuff! The idea! Here — where’re you going, 
Nat? Don’t go away — don’t! Hang it, she wants to 
meet you—she was saying so just a minute ago — and I 
want her to, too. Look here, you must, you know. Here 
they are back now!” 

Mr. Burke, turning a fine purple from head to heels, acutely 
conscious of the traces of the recent conflict about him, and 
with a secret dread that his stock was coming unbuckled at 
the back, executed what was probably the most awkward bow 
ever performed by mortal man, to Miss Sharpless who that 
moment came in with her mother. The young lady went up 
to him and put out her small, slim, cool hand, taking Nathan’s 
big clumsy one with a very frank and winning grace. She 
lifted to him, under the shadow of her pretty bonnet, the eyes 
he so well remembered. “You’ve been so good to Jim, Mr. 
Burke. I don’t know how we are ever going to thank you.” 

“I — I haven’t done anything,” said the honest youth, 
confused and bashful. Nor, in fact, had he; people seemed 
determined to overrate him; and to the ordinary upright 
and sensible man I can conceive of few feelings more mor¬ 
tifying than that of finding himself praised and valued for 
qualities which he knows he does not possess. 

“Nothing at all — it’s agreed you’ve done nothing,” said 
Jim, waving his hand. “Come here and sit on the bed, Nat, 
cold-hearted, niggardly, selfish, unprincipled brute that you 
are. Let the ladies have the chairs, ruffian. This is our 
bower, Mary. Don’t you admire it?” 

“I think it’s a very nice room,” said Mary, politely. She 
perched on one of the chairs as daintily as a bird and let her 
gaze travel about the apartment in unfeigned curiosity. “I 
never knew how men lived — alone, I mean — before.” 

“You don’t know now,” said the invalid, grinning over his 
haggard face. “ Mother’s got us all cleaned up — nobody can 
find anything, so she’s perfectly happy.” 


220 


NATHAN BURKE 


“I hope that’s just your fun, Jim,” said Mrs. Sharpless, in a 
little anxiety. She turned to Burke. “I — I don’t want to 
make you uncomfortable, you know. The pipes are all in 
the table-drawer, Mr. Burke; it’s a little more — more con¬ 
venient than the mantelpiece, don’t you think? And I put 
your books back exactly in the same places every day when 
I dust them. I’ve had a good deal of experience dusting men’s 
books. I haven’t changed anything — to speak of, I mean.” 

“ Why, wasn’t it like this when you came? ” Mary asked her. 
Mrs. Sharpless made a little gesture and her bright eyes sud¬ 
denly filled. 

“Oh, Mary, you ought to have seen it. What do you 
think? Those poor boys were keeping their coal in a 
barrel /” 

“In a barrel! ” echoed Mary, in a tone of equal tragedy. 
The young men exchanged a stare of bewilderment. Why 
not keep the coal in a barrel f To be sure it was in a decent- 
looking scuttle now — as Burke noticed for the first time — 
but both ladies seemed profoundly moved by this simple in¬ 
cident. If that was the way some of their surroundings 
struck Mrs. Sharpless, what did she think of others, Nat re¬ 
flected, horrified. 

“And I think it’s awful the place you’re sleeping in now, 
Mr. Burke,” said Mrs. Sharpless, addressing him energeti¬ 
cally. “I’m sure Mrs. Slaney might fix up something nicer 
than that for you — that horrid hole ! I climbed the stair 
and looked at it the other day. It’s a nest of rats and mice —- 
Br-r-r! No wonder you had to trap them.” 

“Mrs. Slaney! What a name!” ejaculated Mary. 

“Is it true, Nat ? Where are you ? In the cellar ? In the 
woodshed?” Jim cried out, struggling up on his poor, thin, 
trembling arm. He was quite weak still, and the tears came 
into his eyes as he clutched Nathan by the lapel of his coat. 
“Where are you sleeping, Nathan ? I’m such a mullet-head 
I never thought to ask !” 

“Why, Great Scott, I’m on the third floor and as comfort¬ 
able as a man can be,” said the other, soothingly. “Mrs. 
Slaney hasn’t got a better room in the house. It’s a great deal 
warmer than this.” Which last statement was no more than 
the plain truth, for a brick chimney-stack with two or three 
flues passing up through the attic at a point where Mr. 


LONGER AND SOMEWHAT MORE CHEERFUL 221 

Burke could settle his feet against it, he slept in unexampled 
luxury. 

“I don’t believe it,” said Jim, falling back. “If you’re ever 
sick. I’ll get even with you, Nat Burke,” he added with a kind 
of vindictive affection. 

The mother looked at them both with eyes of fond under¬ 
standing; and Mary with an innocent interest which Burke 
found no less touching and captivating. He thought himself 
the luckiest fellow in the world thus to be brought into con¬ 
tact with Jim’s sister, and sat amazed at this happy fortune. 
She was everything he had fancied her when he used to sit 
and dream in the back pew, and watch her at her worship; 
the realization filled him with content and pleasure. Miss 
Sharpless presently took off her bonnet and moved about, 
looking at this and that and asking questions, as artlessly 
friendly as a child; her head of black braids scarcely came up 
to Nathan’s shoulder; she told him that his shelves were put 
up as high as for the “sons of Anak,” and stood on a chair 
which he steadied for her with a hand on the seat alongside 
her trim little feet and ankles in neat gaiters (Nathan could 
have held them both in one of his great hulking fists!), and 
took down Blackstone and read out of it with a ferocious 
emphasis some dictum about women and minors and idiots 
not being allowed control of their property, with a little 
shriek of disdain. “I don’t like your old Law ! Women and 
idiots indeed— !” she said and made a face and smacked 
the book to wrathfully. Nathan thought her adorably sweet, 
simple, womanly. He took her home through the falling 
dusk, carrying her music-roll; and she clung to his arm where 
the crossings were icy; he would have liked to lift her over 
them bodily — or spread down his coat for her to tread upon, 
like another Raleigh. They talked all the way about Jim, 
and, I dare say, a little about Mr. Nat Burke, much more 
than the young man knew, it is likely. He went back to the 
boarding-house in the beatific prospect of seeing her again 
shortly on another visit to her brother — and wondered rather 
scornfully what had possessed Jim to imagine that his sister 
was in the least bit a coquette. Nothing that Nat could see 
in her warranted the charge — do we not all know that mem¬ 
bers of the same family never understand one another, and 
that brothers are notoriously unfair ? 


222 


NATHAN BURKE 


I am uncertain whether at this stage of his career Mr. 
Burke was an ordinary sentimental young fool, or merely a 
very lonely boy of a more or less gentle and affectionate dis¬ 
position. Perhaps he was a little of both. This young man, 
who felt within him all sorts of pathetic and ill-defined im¬ 
pulses towards things beautiful and good, who, in his simple 
fashion tried to keep his eyes on the heights, had never known 
a home or mother of his own — had never spoken to a lady 
upon equal terms in his whole life before, nor been ad¬ 
dressed — except by one little girl — as anything but an 
inferior order of creature. It never entered his head to com¬ 
plain, or to pity himself; he had a serviceable gift of humor 
that may have saved him many a heartburn, and he humbly 
believed (as he does at this moment) that a man may be a 
gentleman without either name, or traditions, or upbringing, 
or social recognition, or any other qualifications than a good 
head and heart. But he was sometimes intolerably solitary 
in his man’s world. He liked work; he liked achievement; 
he had definite ambitions, a standard not easily satisfied; a 
purposeful pride urged him on. Yet there were moments 
when in those moods of causeless but none the less heartsick- 
ening melancholy which overtake all young men, he won¬ 
dered bitterly to what end was all his striving ? Who cared 
what he did, or whither he went, or how he fared? Fame 
and laurels, or a pauper’s tombstone in a corner of the potter’s 
field — it was all one. There was nobody to rejoice in his 
successes, nobody to champion him in defeat. He pictured 
himself with sour mirth half a century hence, a rough, hard¬ 
ened, old man like George Marsh, laughed at and fawned upon 
and feared, full-handed, empty-hearted. He figured with a 
foolish wistfulness what it would be to have some one who 
needed him, leaned on him, shared with him — to have some 
woman worrying over him as Mrs. Ducey worried over her 
William — over Georgie. In that respect any one of his 
fellow-clerks or the other young men he knew was better off 
than he. Some of them were married, and Nathan, with an 
obscure pang of longing, used to observe them buying toys at 
Christmas and fireworks for Independence Day. He had 
been asked to their homes, had even dined there, and met 
their wives, mothers, and sisters. Alas, too often Mrs. 
Clerk was a faded, frowzy woman in a soiled morning-wrapper 


LONGER AND SOMEWHAT MORE CHEERFUL 223 


and the babies cried and squabbled, and there wasn’t quite 
enough pumpkin-pie to go around unless Mama-in-law 
Clerk refused — which she always did with the air of an early 
Christian martyr — and the young ladies, Jack Clerk’s 
sisters, were big, bouncing, giggling, loud-voiced girls who 
made eyes, and squealed: “Oh, now, Mr. Burke!” at every¬ 
thing that gentleman said or did, and accused him of being 
the worst cut up! Yet of so robust a stuff was Mr. Nat’s power 
of idealization that he refused to believe that all homes and 
“female society” were as these ; he thought, blushing shyly 
to himself, that Mary Sharpless’s house would be a differ¬ 
ent place, and contrasted her manners with those of the 
Misses Clerk, greatly to the disadvantage of those amiable 
ladies. 

Miss Sharpless — who, nevertheless, possessed an unusual 
and beautiful pair of eyes eminently adapted to such a pur¬ 
pose — never exerted them after this killing style upon Nat, 
at any rate. And undoubtedly it did not occur to her to 
charge so long, lean, sober, and quiet a young man with being 
a lively rogue such as the term “cut-up” implies. She used, 
on her visits, to sit sedately and darn Jim’s socks, and talk to 
both young fellows in a strain of frank interest as if they were 
equally her brothers. Sometimes she read aloud in her 
pleasant, clear, well-modulated voice, On their walks home, 
she would question Nathan, gravely, about his prospects; 
she would listen enthusiastically to his plans, which, I fear, 
Mr. Burke poured out with very great freedom and detail. 
She asked him in and played for him, and Nat, to whom 
music in general was a more or less agreeable but always 
wholly unintelligible noise, listened in rapt delight! It was 
fugues and masses and noble solemn chants which Mary 
performed for him on the jingling old piano — “maybe I’ll 
earn enough to buy a new one some day,” she would say 
with a sigh and a sweet, pensive look. What would not Nat 
Burke have given to have been able to go straight out and 
send her a Broadwood grand? How he envied — he, who 
couldn’t tell a jig from a funeral march — the callous little 
urchins who took lessons from her! 

“I suppose she plays you waltzes and country-dances, of 
course, Nat?” Sharpless inquired one day with a singular 
and rather mischievous expression. 


224 


NATHAN BURKE 


“James!” said his mother, in a troubled voice, 11 don’t 
joke. You know very well Mary can’t help it.” 

“Why, I don’t see why you’re in such a taking about it. 
Mary could find a hundred justifications in Holy Writ itself. 
I never heard of a thing you couldn’t get some kind of au¬ 
thority for out of the Bible. Hand it here, will you, Nat? 
Didn’t David dance before the Ark?” 

“James!” said Mrs. Sharpless again, quite shocked; and 
Mary gathered her sewing together and rose with a deal of 
dignity. 

“It’s all very well for you to talk, Jim,” she said in a tone 
that intimated it was perfectly brutal; and while Burke 
looked on, puzzled, not at all understanding the little scene; 
“at least,” said Mary, flushing with an appealing glance 
directed at him for some reason, “at least I don’t offend my 
father to his face, and embitter his life with dissensions, and — 
and set people gossiping. I don’t —” 

“Of course not. You’re entirely open and above-board 
and act up to your convictions — all women do,” said Jim, 
with exasperating good-nature. “Look at ’em, Nat. 
They’re two of as honest women — Good Lord, Ma, don’t 
look so* I mean honest like a man, you know — I say, Nathan, 
they’re as honest as any woman ever is, and they haven’t 
told the truth to father for years ! They’ll look you straight 
in the eye and lie like a missionary — for your good, you 
know -— to make you happy and comfortable ! Yes, Mrs. 
Sharpless, how do you expect to answer for it on the Judg¬ 
ment Day when the secrets of all hearts will be laid bare ? 
What are you going to say, Madame? It will take two, 
large, powerfully muscled angels to drag mother on the stand. 
She will resist. She will cry big tears. ‘ Lawk, mum, don’t 
take on so! ’Tain’t a mite of use, you know. Look out, 
Mike, easy does it! Don’t go for to shove a lady!’ says 
Gabriel. They fall back, Michael respectfully removing 
his halo to mop his brow. ‘What’s this prisoner charged 
with? ’ says Peter, glowering terribly at mother in the pres¬ 
ence of the whole of the First Presbyterian congregation, and 
all the nations of the earth, including a lot of Hottentots in 
ostrich-feather petticoats, and South-Sea Islanders in noth¬ 
ing at all. Just think, they’ll all be craning and stretching 
and staring, all the old deacons and elders, partly at mother, 
but mostly at the South-Sea Islanders —!” 


LONGER AND SOMEWHAT MORE CHEERFUL 225 


"James!” said Mrs. Sharpless, helplessly; “oh, I know 
it’s awful the way you talk, but somehow you make me want 
to laugh!” 

“Up steps Satan and being duly sworn, deposes that Laura 
Sharpless to his certain knowledge, and acting — by George, 
yes! — acting on his advice, has aided and abetted another 
criminal, to wit: Mary Sharpless, in deceiving one Jona¬ 
than Edwards Sharpless (sensation in the sheep gallery), 
father of James Sharpless (sensation in the goat gallery), into 
believing that said Mary never plays dance-music, nor per¬ 
forms at any entertainment for the assembled company to 
dance, such being contrary to said John E. Sharpless’s prin¬ 
ciples and belief, and a godless and heathenish form of amuse¬ 
ment. Whereas, in fact, said Mary has been doing it every 
day for years whenever anybody would pay her, and every 
man, woman, and child in the town knows it but her father—” 

“If you’ve finished, Jim —” Mary began indignantly. 

Her brother sank back among his pillows, and wagged his 
hand feebly. “At this point, proceedings were interrupted 
by one of the cherubim falling downstairs,” he said, grinning 
at Nathan. “Never mind these revelations, ladies, Nat 
doesn’t care how many fibs you tell.” 

It was the truth; Nat didn’t care. He saw something 
touching in this poor little deception rendered necessary or 
at least excusable by the Reverend Mr. Sharpless’s ridiculous 
despotism. “I — I must do it, you know, Mr. Burke,” 
Mary said to him tremulously as they parted on the rectory 
doorstep that evening; “we need the money.” She looked 
like an angel as she said it — she was an angel, the young 
fellow thought. Could he but take care of her, she would 
need neither to work, or to tell stories any more — she should 
have all her small feminine desires, pretty clothes, and jewels 
and — and — he strode away with his head full of foolish 
dreams. 




CHAPTER XVII 


In which — the Horse being stolen — Nathan shuts 
the Stable Door 

Burke had already returned to his desk while some of the 
events last recited were taking place; and was a good deal 
surprised, touched, and pleased at the warmth of his recep¬ 
tion. The clerks came and pumped his hands up and down, 
and thumped him on the back with awkward cordiality; 
there was a note of genuine feeling in their rough, boyish 
voices as they told him they had missed him, and asked after 
Jim. Mr. Ducey welcomed him and made inquiries affably 
and kindly; old Marsh alone displayed no interest, to the 
casual view. “Huh, Nathan!” was all he said, looking up 
over his glasses, as the young man entered, precisely as if he 
had not noticed his head-clerk’s absence at all. An associa¬ 
tion for any length of time with George Marsh was tolerably 
certain to correct any notions his subordinates might enter¬ 
tain of their own value and importance; yet Nat thought he 
detected a degree of trust and satisfaction in the old fellow’s 
familiar grunt; and, in fact, would have been somewhat 
taken aback at any manifestation of sentiment from him. 
There was a queer wordless sympathy between them in spite 
of the wide difference in their years and characters. So 
that, when Mr. Marsh, laying down his paper and following 
thoughtfully Nat’s actions as the latter made his preparations 
for work, remarked finally in a tone of elaborate abstraction: 
“I shouldn’t wonder if you’d find plenty to do, Burke. 
We’ve had to get a fellow in your place, of course, while you 
was away,” Nathan perceived — what surely no one else 
would — a kind of amusement, irony, or mischief either in 
his speech or manner, and turned to look at him questioningly. 
The other met his eye with a humorous gravity. 

“ I said we’d had to get in somebody — a new man. Came 
226 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 227 


and offered himself, here a week or so ago. He hasn’t been 
particularly efficient — but he’s a good-hearted chap, Nat; 
he means well.” 

“Who is it? What’s his name?” Burke asked, puzzled. 

“Why, George Ducey, to be sure,” said Mr. Marsh; and 
then, observing the expression of blank astonishment and not 
a little concern — certainly anything but complimentary to 
George — on the younger man’s face, he fell back in his 
arm-chair lost in laughter. His heavy sides shook; he had 
to remove his chew of tobacco; keeping in the meanwhile 
one small, shrewd, active old eye on the outer regions of the 
store where Ducey senior was employed with a customer. 
“Why not George, hey?” he demanded between chuckles, 
“damn it, Burke, to look at you, one might think you abso¬ 
lutely didn’t trust George. You don’t seem to cotton to the 
notion of George keeping your books. By damn, sir, I’m 
George’s uncle, and I don’t know whether I like your man¬ 
ners!” 

“Why, I — I — of course George is all right, Mr. Marsh,” 
said Burke, trying not to look his anxiety as he opened the 
ledger — whereat old George only laughed the more. “Only 
he isn’t very familiar with figures, you know. And —” he 
caught the other’s eye, and grinned against his will, “well, 
it’s about the last thing in the world I should have expected 
from George, and that’s the truth,” he confessed. 

“You’re mistaken, sir,” said the old gentleman, severely; 
“George knows all about figures — more than you know — 
more than I know — more than anybody knows. There is 
nothing left for George to learn. If you don’t believe it, 
look at the books. I went over ’em myself every night, and 
I’m free to say, sir, I never saw anything equal to the way 
George can keep accounts!” He took out his huge old ban¬ 
danna handkerchief and blew a sounding blast. “Well, 
Nat,” he added with real seriousness, “the boy did mean 
well — it’s like you say, I never would have thought he’d 
do it. I’m afraid I haven’t always been just to George; and 
then he’s pretty young still — he’ll grow. But he did come 
down here — during the holidays it was, too, just after he got 
back from college — and he did offer to do your work, and he 
did try after his fashion. To be sure I don’t believe he’d 
have held out much longer at it — there ain’t any perse- 


228 


NATHAN BURKE 


verance or stick-at-one-thing-ness to George — he wasn’t 
born that way — but give him credit — give him credit. He 
won’t get to be President, but he’ll keep out of the Peniten¬ 
tiary, I guess.” And with this pointed witticism, Mr. Marsh 
resumed his survey of the market-reports, having had his 
joke out and mightily enjoyed its effect on Nathan. 

From this and sundry other remarks of his it will be seen 
that the uncle had but a small opinion of the nephew; it 
would have been hard to fancy two people less likely to agree. 
The older man never scrupled to express himself plainly; 
and if the younger did not always set forth exactly what he 
thought of Uncle George to Uncle George, he was not, perhaps, 
the first man who has made an effort to keep on civil terms 
with a wealthy old relative whose namesake he was and whose 
heir he might be. Besides George Ducey was endowed with 
a stout armor of self-conceit, calculated to turn aside the heav¬ 
iest blows of sarcasm or ridicule — illi robur et aes triplex! 
Strong oak and thrice-laid brass encased this hero. It was 
seldom that his uncle’s blunt shafts could penetrate it; and 
on the rare occasions when George after repeated assaults 
did become uneasily conscious that he was being made game 
of or sneered at, his native serenity — for he was really a 
most good-tempered and amiable fellow — soon returned. 
“Uncle George nevah can remembah that I’ve grown up,” 
he would explain indulgently; “he’s getting old, y’know.” 

George had, indeed, the other men as well as Mr. Marsh 
informed Burke, come down to the office as soon as he reached 
home a few days before Christmas, upon hearing of the plight 
they were in, and gallantly undertaken Nathan’s duties; 
and stuck to his post for a week or more although the work 
was hard and tedious (or would have been if he had under¬ 
stood anything about it), the office a dull, dark, dirty hole, and 
the company highly disagreeable to any young gentleman of 
George’s refined and select tastes—to say nothing of the fact 
that there were a great many gayeties going on at that season 
wherein he would naturally have borne a part. He contrived 
to accept some of the invitations, and gave the boys at the 
store long, minute, and brilliant descriptions of these festivi¬ 
ties. He could remember what every one of the girls wore — 
what he said to them — what they said to him! He used to 
repeat these arch, witty, or sentimental conversations at 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 229 


considerable length to an audience of grinning youths. He 
dazzled you with florid details — waxed floors — candles — 
mirrors — fancy ices — satin waistcoats — pumps—tulle 
and spangles — two violins, a harp, and the piano — how richly 
did these terms resound upon the arid atmosphere of the ware- 
room! How George did flourish and glitter before the hum¬ 
ble gaze of Burke’s fellow-workers! His table was piled high 
with cards; he was besieged with invitations which he heroic¬ 
ally refused. His mother thought George was working him¬ 
self into his grave; she told all her friends about his noble 
unselfish conduct. “The head bookkeeper had to go home, 
you know — it’s that young man named Burke that used to 
be our chore-boy — of course you don’t remember. But it 
seems he’s living with Jimmie Sharpless now — eh? My 
dear, don’t ask me, I don’t know anything about them. All 
I know is that he and Jim have struck up some kind of a 
friendship and they are living together in a boarding-house 
somewhere — you heard about Jim being so sick, didn’t 
you? Mercy, yes — didn’t you know about that ? Why, he 
wasn’t expected to live for a while! This Burke young man 
wanted to take care of him, so they let him go, and then the 
minute George came home, he said right off without anybody 
having to coax and argue the way they would with most 
young fellows: ‘All right, father, I’ll go right down and take 
his place.’ Just like that, you know, right off. ‘All right, 
father, I’ll go straight down and do the work.’ Well, of 
course, I know he’s my own son, and there’s that old saying 
about every crow thinking its own young one white — but I 
will say I think that was a lovely thing for any young man to 
do, and I’m just as proud of George as I can be. He’s hardly 
been anywhere, and you know there’ve been dozens of par¬ 
ties, and of course he is asked to all of them — all the girls are 
after George the whole time — but he just wouldn’t go while 
they were so short of help at the office. Jim Sharpless is 
getting well, they say; wouldn’t you think he’d take it as a 
lesson and a warning t Dr. Vardaman said he was awfully 
sick — poor Jim! I made some chicken-jelly and sent it 
down to him this morning — I don’t care how bad he is, I 
always was fond of Jim, and I can’t help feeling sorry for 
him.” 

Quite by accident Burke overheard this speech; and I do 


230 


NATHAN BURKE 


not know why it should have lingered in his mind to be re¬ 
peated after all these years, unless because the incident seems 
somehow to be interwoven part and parcel with one of the 
best-remembered (perhaps because one of the most unhappy) 
times of his life. For his own part, Nathan thanked George 
warmly, and the latter received the thanks with a smile of 
faint, kindly superiority. “ Don’t mention it, Burke. Any 
time you want help, or would like me to show you anything 
about the books I’ll be most pleased,” he assured the other. 
And Nat settled to his duties with a mingled amusement and 
irritation; and some shame at his own impatience under 
George’s suavity. “Confound him! Why on earth will he 
spoil a kind and generous action with his infernal airs ? If he 
has sense enough for one thing, he ought to have sense enough 
for another!” thought Nathan; and the next time George 
gracefully approached him for a small loan — “pay you to¬ 
morrow, Nat, or Thursday at farthest, if you could conven¬ 
iently to-day? Fact is, I’m hard up this month — Christ¬ 
mas presents, you know -— and then, hang it, a fellow has to 
get out with the boys once in a while, hey?” — I say, when 
this happened, Nathan supplied him freely, wondering the 
while at his own eagerness to stand even with George. “I 
suppose it’s a streak of meanness in me,” he said to himself 
with a doubtful smile. He would have lent Jim Sharpless 
every penny he owned in the world, or borrowed all of Jim’s 
with no such uneasiness.. Already they were beholden one 
to the other for a hundred kindnesses of which neither ever 
thought to take account. Why should the idea of owing 
George Ducey a favor be so unbearable? Burke did not dis¬ 
like him — no one could actively dislike George — but the 
boy wearied him ineffably with his etiquette-manual manners, 
his trivial deceptions, his flat, feeble, pompous chatter. A 
grown man to be gabbling about ball-room decorations and 
women’s clothes! Before the holidays were well over, he 
ceased to be entertaining even to the young clerks; they 
tired of those stories whereof George was eternally the hero, 
they laughed no more at his ribbon-and-lace conquests; 
they welcomed the announcement that he was to enter upon 
the career of medicine with humorous relief and with more 
than one quaint and pointed comment. Nathan asked Dr. 
Vardaman if it was true that George was to study in his 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 231 


office, and to his amazement the doctor confirmed it, although 
with an extremely odd and unreadable expression. 

It was at about this time that Burke was again called to 
the front of the store one day to see a lady — “Gettin’ to be 
kinder popular with ’em, ain’t you, Nat? Runnin’ after 
you the way they do after Bay-Rum Pettie, ain’t they?” 
observed the bearer of the summons, flippantly — Bay-Rum 
Pettie being the title which these profane underlings had be¬ 
stowed on the heir of the establishment behind his back. 
“It’s Miss Blake this time,” he added in explanation; and 
Nathan, who for a moment had harbored the insane hope 
that it might be Miss Somebody-Else who had the most 
beautiful black hair and gray eyes in the universe and more¬ 
over played the piano like Saint Cecilia, went to meet her 
unreasonably disappointed. It was a snapping cold winter 
day with snow and brilliant fringes of icicles. Outside he 
saw a sleigh running over with furs, lap-robes, pretty bright¬ 
cheeked girls, from which Francie had descended. She stood 
just within the door, wrapped up shapelessly in a furred cloak 

— it was Mrs. Ducey’s, lined with the squirrel fur — out of 
which emerged her round face very fresh, rosy, and sparkling 
in a frame of blown, brown curls. Between her hands, which 
had a look in loose mittens of being the paws of some charm¬ 
ing little animal, she was carefully supporting something done 
up in immaculate white with a square of note-paper addressed 
in Mrs. Ducey’s slim, correct, Italian handwriting on top. 
She held it out to Nat with a shy gesture, rather confused and 
declining the shabby chair one of the young fellows was offer¬ 
ing her, among the boxes and kegs. He retreated with a 
glance which Mr. Burke considered by far too frankly ad¬ 
miring. 

“Nathan, Aunt Anne sent this down, and she says will you 
take it to Mr. Sharpless — she’s written a note to his mother 

— she says you’re to be sure and not lose it,” said Francie, 
answering Nat’s grin at this characteristic caution with a dim¬ 
ple flashing into view at the corner of her mouth, and dis¬ 
appearing again by magic as she went on soberly: “it’s some 
jelly she’s made for him, and none of us knew where he lived, 
so she says you’re to take it to him. And how is he? ” 

“He’s getting on very well,” said Nat, accepting the china 
bowl and napkin gingerly. “He can sit up several hours a 


232 


NATHAN BURKE 


day now, and he’ll be able to write and thank Mrs. Ducey, I 
think. It’s very kind of her.” 

“It wasn’t any trouble,” said Francie, about to depart, 
“and — oh, Nathan, I nearly forgot, Aunt Anne says you’re 
not to bother about the things, they’re old and you don’t 
need to send them back.” 

“The things?” repeated Burke, uncomprehendingly. 
“What things?” 

“Why, the bowl, you know — it’s cracked, and the napkin 
is one out of an old worn-out set, that set with the rain-drop 
pattern, don’t you remember?” Francie explained, evidently 
marvelling at this masculine stupidity. “Aunt Anne picked 
them out purposely so you could just throw them away with¬ 
out any bother about returning them.” 

“Why, I’d just as lief,” said Nathan, eying respectfully 
the napkin which was beautifully white and clean and ap¬ 
peared to him a handsome piece of table-furniture in spite of 
a hole here and there — they had little squares of the red 
tablecloth for napkins at Mrs. Slaney’s and frequently went 
without altogether. “It’s very nice, isn’t it? I’ll bring it 
up. I wanted to come up and — and see how Nance is 
anyhow—I meant to long ago,” he added in the defen¬ 
sively apologetic tone he had come to adopt whenever he 
referred to her, “only Jim’s been so sick —” 

Francie looked at him startled. “Why, Nathan — why, 
didn’t you know — ?” 

“Know what?” 

“Why, Nance isn’t — she isn’t at the house — she isn’t 
with Aunt Anne any more — didn’t you know — ?” There 
was an indefinable alarm in her voice; her eyes widened and 
darkened after a curious fashion they had whenever the child 
was frightened or apprehensive. Burke noted it absently; 
he was not surprised to hear of Nance’s departure. In na¬ 
ture she couldn’t stand it much longer, he had often told 
himself, and his first feeling was akin to relief. The experi¬ 
ment was bound to end uncomfortably, but at last it was 
ended. 

“Where did she go? Back to the country? It’s odd she 
didn’t come and tell me,” he said. 

“Oh, Nathan, didn’t you know?” Francie reiterated in a 
voice of miserable consternation, “she — she went away 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 233 


because she — she had to go — she took something of Aunt 
Anne’s — at least Aunt Anne — Aunt Anne thought she 
did—” Francie interrupted herself eagerly. “Aunt Anne 
says she knows — oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry!” Indeed she 
looked so; her eyes filled; dread and anxiety together 
clouded her face as she met the young man’s gaze. “I don’t 
know why, but we thought of course you knew about it. We 
thought George or some one would have told you.” 

“Took something? Took something of your aunt’s? 
You mean she stole it ?” said Burke, with dry lips. 

“ Yes. That is, Aunt Anne is sure she did—” said the girl, 
hesitating in her honesty and sympathy; and visibly almost 
as much distressed as if she herself had been accused of theft. 
“Oh, Nathan, it hurts me to be the one to have to tell you! 
It was that brooch, you know. Aunt Anne’s had it for ever 
so long, she’s so fond of it. Don’t you remember, it was 
heart-shaped, an opal with diamonds around it? Uncle 
Will gave it to her — I think it was when you first came — 
it was that long ago, wasn’t it, Uncle Will? The brooch that 
Nance st—that Aunt Anne says she st—that Aunt Anne 
missed the other day, you know?” She appealed to Mr. 
Ducey, who had come up and stood by, fidgeting a little. 
There was an abrupt silence. One or two of the boys, some¬ 
how scenting trouble, lingered near, alert and listening. 
Burke, who had been holding the bowl all this while between 
his two hands, set it down on the head of a barrel beside 
him, with a kind of mechanical and painful deliberation as if 
it had been of extreme value. He swallowed before he 
spoke, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. 

“When did this happen?” he said. 

“Several weeks ago — month maybe — really I don’t 
quite recollect when,” Ducey said, rather irritably and un¬ 
easily, pulling his watch out of his pocket, and snapping the 
cover open and glancing at it and putting it back two or three 
times over with the air of haste and preoccupation habitual 
with him during business hours and at the store. “Haven’t 
seen anything of Wilson, have you, Burke? I’m looking for 
him this morning to close up that deal — let’s see, I hope my 
memorandum agrees with yours in the books —” said Wil¬ 
liam, who was always fussing about with notes and slips and 
references — “five hogsheads Demerara sugar, and that 


234 


NATHAN BURKE 


lard, you know, let’s see — um — er — too bad about the 
Darnell girl — ah — um—” he walked away nervously, and 
we heard old Marsh’s heavy voice raucously delivering some 
command in the office in the rear. 

“It was the beginning of December — before the holi¬ 
days— before George came home,” Francie said, faltering; 
“it was just after Aunt Anne was so sick — she — she says 
that’s when Nance — when it happened.” 

“You mean Nance took it and went off with it ?” 

“No, oh, no. She didn’t go till afterwards — till Aunt 
Anne found out —” 

“Mrs. Ducey saw her take it? Or found it on her?” 
Burke asked. 

“No, no. She says she knows Nance took it, though, be¬ 
cause — because she —” Francie hesitated again; she loved 
her aunt, and with Francie love and loyalty were one stuff 
and that a stout sort, innocent of shades or varieties. Yet 
something in the young man’s face moved her to add almost 
pleadingly in a lowered voice: “ Nathan, you know how Aunt 
Anne is. She’s just as sure. Nance said she didn’t take it — 
and — and I believed her. I don’t think she would steal 
anything. But you know how Aunt Anne is ! ” 

“Nance left the house then? Where did she go?” said 
Burke, harshly. 

“Nathan, I don’t know. She got a place somewhere — 
Aunt Anne heard — but she isn’t there any more —” 

She shrank a little before his hard eyes, all the color quite 
gone out of her sweet, earnest face. I daresay this Nathan 
was a new man to Francie, a forbidding stranger. She was a 
devoutly obedient nature, gentle-tempered, trusting, wholly 
ignorant of the world, and it may be that she now perceived 
for the first time at one stroke, in all its ugliness, what this 
thing was that had happened, and glimpsed unexpected 
depths of tragedy. She clasped her two small mittens to¬ 
gether in a pitiful gesture. “Oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry, so 
sorry! Aunt Anne — I wish you could see Aunt Anne —” 

“I will,” said Nat, sombrely. 

The girls were challenging her gayly from the sleigh; and 
when she went out to join them, there was a gust of laughter 
and questions and pretty little outcries. The young women 
doubtless wondered much at Francie’s grave face, and were 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 235 


profoundly amused at the stiff, silent young man who came 
out with her and helped her to her seat without a word. 

The Ducey house was pleasantly lit as Nathan went up 
the brick walk that evening. Bright shafts of light streamed 
through the windows, where the Christmas wreaths of holly 
still hung against the panes — peace on earth, good-will to 
men, Burke thought with a fierce irony, noting these symbols. 
He was too ill at ease with his own conscience, too racked by 
bootless regrets to spare a little charity to others. Why had 
he ever lost sight of Nance? He could not have kept this 
from happening, perhaps — he recalled with a bitter humor 
the hosts of outraged servant-girls whom he had witnessed 
in the old days, declaiming, protesting, bewailing their 
unjust lot in Mrs. Ducey’s kitchen. No, he could not have 
prevented it — but he might have tried to keep in closer 
touch with Nance; if she could have relied on his faith and 
friendship, she might have come to him, told him, asked his 
help. In God’s name, thought the young man desperately, 
why didn’t she come anyhow ? She could not have sup¬ 
posed for an instant that he would believe this wretched 
charge ? Where was she ? What had become of her ? He 
had spent the afternoon in fruitless search. It was more 
than a month — but the town was a small place after all — 
she must be somewhere in it. He might have thought — 
he would have been very glad to think — that she Rad gone 
back to her old home, to the cabin on the Scioto; but, as 
luck would have it, he had fallen in, during his inquiry, with 
’Liph Williams, come in town for the day’s trading; and 
“ How’s Nance ? Seen her lately ? ” asked the farmer, cheer¬ 
fully, among his greetings. “ No. Have you ? ” Nat said with 
a pang of apprehension. ’Liph thought he was joking and 
poked him in the side with grins and winks. “Ho, ho, 
smarty! Me see her, hey? It’s just like my woman says, 
Nance’ll never come back to th’ country, no more’n you ever 
will, Nat. Town’s th’ place young folks likes. Does Nance 
like it up to Ducey’s, though ? Joe didn’t much — Joe, he 
quit, ye know. He ’lowed Nance would, too, after a spell. 
Say, you tell Nance we’d be right down glad to see her any 
time she feels like cornin’ out. Ye might bring her some day 
yerself, Nat, if both of ye could git a day off.” 


236 


NATHAN BURKE 


Shame tied the other’s tongue, forbade explanations. He 
could not tell Williams the miserable truth. Time enough 
for that when he himself should have found out something 
definite about the poor girl, he thought, shrinking. He 
would not let ’Liph carry this sorry tale out to the back- 
woods. If Nance herself would not go there with her trouble, 
was it for him to send it ahead of her ? He recoiled from the 
thought of her name loaded with this accusation passed from 
tongue to tongue out there in her old haunts, among the men 
and women who had seen her grow up. They liked her, 
doubtless some of them would believe in her and champion 
her; but she was Jake Darnell’s daughter, and Nat knew the 
world well enough to know how ill that relationship would 
stead her, even among people who were no whit better 
themselves. Gossip is everywhere ready to announce the 
solid truth that figs do not grow on thistles, and will be as 
brisk, as sharp, and as short-sighted in the fields as on the 
sidewalk. 

There was music in the parlor and company. The young 
men, all of whom knew Burke, and nodded, staring a little, 
were carrying chairs out into the hall and pushing the 
furniture back in preparation for dancing. Nat was ushered 
into the dining-room where the folding-doors were drawn to, 
and the table set with piles of plates and sandwiches and cake 
in Mrs. Ducey’s handsome silver cake-baskets, and cut-glass 
saucers of sweets. He knew the room well. There was a 
mirror over the mantel-shelf and a French clock of bronze 
with a figure of Galileo seated upon the flat summit of it, 
and bronze candelabra flanking it at either end, between 
which ornaments Burke caught sight of his own grim and 
pallid features as he waited. He could hear Mrs. Ducey’s 
sweet, decided voice on the other side of the closed doors: 
“George said right off —” “Well, of course, I know I’m his 
mother, but I do think that was a lovely thing for any young 
man to do —” and an appreciative murmur from the listener. 
We have heard her already, haven’t we ? In a moment she 
came rustling in with her quick unerring step, about which 
there was a kind of peremptory lightness. She was dressed 
for the evening in bright silks and laces; her lovely fair face 
bloomed above her finery. “Well, Nathan, how do you do? 
I haven’t seen anything of you for a long while. It’s cold, 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 237 

isn’t it ? Come close by the fire, you must be almost 
frozen.” 

“I came up to ask about Nance Darnell, Mrs. Ducey,” 
said Burke, without preamble. 

“Yes, I know. Francie told me. Wasn’t it a pity?” 
She turned towards him with an expression of genuine dis¬ 
tress and trouble. “Oh, Nathan, I’ve often thought of it 
since I found her out, you were right when you warned me 
not to take Nance in the house. You knew her better than I 
did — you remember you told me so, but I just wouldn’t 
listen, when you cautioned me against her. You see —” 

“I ? I warned you against Nance ?” said Nat, in a ghastly 
bewilderment. 

“Yes, don’t you remember? Why, surely you remember 
coming up here and telling me over and over again that you 
thought I’d better not take her, because I didn’t know any¬ 
thing about her and you did. The trouble was I didn’t at 
all realize what you meant,” said Mrs. Ducey, in almost an 
apologetic tone, “I didn’t understand, and I did so want to 
do something for her as long as it sort of seemed as if we had 
been mixed up in her father’s death.” She looked at the 
young man with a real appeal for sympathy. “Isn’t it 
dreadful how Nance has turned out after all I did for her ? I 
suppose you thought I was very headstrong, but you really 
didn’t speak plain enough, Nathan; it would have been the 
better kindness.” 

“I don’t think you understand now, Mrs. Ducey,” said 
Burke, appalled with a sudden sense of the futility of argu¬ 
ment. By what feminine process of reason or imagination 
she had so distorted his own words and actions, he could not 
even guess, but it erected a wall of adamant between them on 
the instant, strengthened by Mrs. Ducey’s own absolute 
honesty and sincerity. For a flash there seemed to him a 
kind of exasperating dulness about it — yet he knew Mrs. 
Ducey to be anything but a dull woman. “I don’t think 
you understand,” he repeated painstakingly; “I never meant 
to warn you against Nance. I don’t know what I could 
have said that could have given you the idea ” 

“Why, Nathan, it’s not possible you don’t remember ?” 
exclaimed Mrs. Ducey, amazed; “you came and told me 
yourself she wasn’t fit to take in the house why, you said 


238 


NATHAN BURKE 


so — don’t you remember ? ” She looked at him helplessly 
questioning. “What did you say if you didn’t say that, I’d 
like to know?” 

“I don’t remember what I said exactly, Mrs. Ducey,” 
said Burke, despairingly; “but I must have put it very badly, 
for warning you against Nance was the last thing in the world 
I should have thought of. I want you to believe that. I 
had no idea of such a thing.” 

“Hm! Well, I certainly took it that way when I came to 
think it over the other day when I found out that she had 
stolen my brooch,” said Mrs. Ducey; “but anyhow there’s 
no use in talking about that now. Whatever you meant to 
say —and I’m sure I can’t imagine what you did mean if not 
that — there’s no use now. You mustn’t think I am suspect¬ 
ing you of knowing anything about it, Nathan,” she added 
quickly and with the utmost kindness; “I see you were as 
much deceived in Nance as I was — it’s so easy for any girl 
to pull the wool over a young man’s eyes. Why, I wouldn’t 
dream of suspecting you. Don’t worry about that.” 

“Yes, I’ve lived here on the place, and in the office several 
years and never stolen anything, though I’ve had many op¬ 
portunities, so I suppose my honesty is fairly well estab¬ 
lished,” said Nat, in savage sarcasm. 

“Yes. Of course. Whatever I am, I always try to be just 
and reasonable,”said Mrs. Ducey. “We all make mistakes, I 
suppose,” she went on gravely; “I made one about Nance. 
But you’re not to blame, Nathan; I’m sure you meant well. 
If you had just told me flat you were afraid she couldn’t be 
trusted, it would have been so much better; but I suppose 
you weren’t quite sure, and it’s wrong to say things like that 
unless one is absolutely sure. I understand just how you 
feel.” She cast a glance of housewifely concern over the 
table. “Wouldn’t you like a doughnut or something ?” 

Burke declined, conscious of a bitter comedy in the scene. 
“Would you mind telling me — you know I only heard about 
it to-day — how you came to suspect — that is, what made 
you think Nance had taken your breastpin ? How it all hap¬ 
pened, I mean?” he amended hurriedly, seeing Mrs.- Ducey 
stiffen at something in the wording or manner of this inquiry. 

“There was no thinking. or suspecting at all about it, Na¬ 
than,” she said with dignity. “I hope you don’t believe I 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 239 


would accuse a person on mere suspicion, or because I just 
thought they had stolen something. Of course, I can’t prove 
it — no one can ever prove anything of this kind, because that 
sort of thief is always too smart ever to have it proved on 
them — I simply know. I know just as certainly as if I had 
seen Nance take it with my own eyes — anybody would 
know. It happened while I was sick, you know. I thought 
it was kind of queer how Nance insisted on being in the room 
with me, and waiting on me all the time, and not letting any 
one come near me; and she kept the room so dark , you know, 
and moved around like a cat without the least noise — well, 
of course when I’m sick I don’t like light and noise and a lot 
of people around me, so that I never suspected at the time 
what she was up to — and besides I was too sick to notice 
much. I had my brooch put away — it was that opal set in 
diamonds — you must have seen me wear it — I was so fond 
of it—” said Mrs. Ducey, pathetically, her pretty eyes 
brimming. “Will — Mr. Ducey gave it to me long ago — 
I’d rather she had taken almost anything than that. That’s 
what I told her — it was so heartless —” 

“You — you caught her with it?” said Burke. 

“No — oh, mercy, no! How innocent men are where a 
young woman is concerned!” said Mrs. Ducey, pityingly; 
“as if she would have let me catch her with it! She was a 
great deal too sharp for that! I ought to have been more 
careful, I suppose, but I never thought. I remember now 
she always looked at it so admiringly whenever I put it on, 
and once she said to me: ‘That’s a lovely piece of jewelry, 
it just suits you. What is the name of that stone?’ So I 
told her it was an opal. Then she wanted to know where it 
came from and all about it — and, Nathan, I was so un¬ 
suspicious it never entered my head that she was trying to 
find out whether it was worth anything! She didn’t ask a 
word about the diamonds, because she knew how costly they 
were, don’t you see ? That just shows! Only after I had told 
her all I knew about opals, I said just for curiosity, you know, 
without thinking anything, because she did say such funny 
things sometimes, it amused me so: ‘What did you want 
to know for, Nance?’ And she colored up and said just 
as confused and hesitating as could be, ‘They make.me think 
of snow in a hollow with the sun kind of red on it, winter 


240 


NATHAN BURKE 


evenings.’ Now did you ever hear such a rigmarole as that ? 
Of course she had to think up some kind of explanation right 
away, and that was the best she could do on the spur of the 
moment. I ought to have been on my guard, only I never 
thought at the time. But you see how plain it all is,” said 
Mrs. Ducey, pausing for breath. 

“I see,” said Burke, heavily. He sat listening with folded 
arms and head on his chest. Good God, poor Nance, with 
her awkward tongue, her vague, wild, shy fancies! 

“Well, I put away my brooch in the same place I always 
do, just the night before I was taken sick — before I had to 
go to bed, I mean. I was feeling miserable for two or three 
days before that, but I never give up till the last minute. I 
generally lock up my things, and I’m sure I did that night, 
but Nance came in and insisted on making me a hot lemonade 
and fixing a foot-bath, and she helped me undress, and of 
course she kept her eyes open all the time — it must all have 
been part of her plan — I shouldn’t wonder if she’d been 
waiting days for a chance —” 

“She could hardly have calculated on your sickness or 
timed her actions so accurately, could she?” Nathan could 
not refrain from suggesting. 

“Oh, my, people like that are just as sharp as nails — 
you’ve no idea! They have all kinds of ways of doing that 
honest persons would never think of,” said Mrs. Ducey, with 
conviction. “Of course I don’t know when Nance took 
it — I don’t believe she took it that night. But she knew 
where it was and all she had to do was to bide her time —” 

“Did nobody else in the house know where it was?” 
Burke asked. 

Mrs. Ducey stared. “ Why, you don’t suppose Mr. 
Ducey or Francie would have taken it, Nathan ? It was long 
before George came home — well, of all the absurd —” 

“I mean the other servants.” 

“Oh, the other servants don’t count. I only had a woman 
coming in by the day at the time to wash and iron and do the 
cleaning, and she always went home at night. And anyway, 

I always hide my jewelry carefully so that a strange person 
coming in couldn’t possibly find it. No, it’s no use, Nathan,” 
said Mrs. Ducey, shaking her head regretfully; “I thought of 
all those things the same as you are doing when I got up after 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 241 


I got well, and found my brooch was gone, and ic was per¬ 
fectly plain that Nance was the one who had taken it. I felt 
terribly, Nathan; I hated to think that anybody could be so 
ungrateful and unprincipled.” 

“Well, then, you accused her of it?” 

“No, I didn't accuse her, Nathan. I tried to be kind. I 
just called her into my room, and told her what had hap¬ 
pened, that I couldn’t find my.brooch anywhere, and I was 
sorry but I knew some one must have stolen it, and I was 
afraid I knew the person. And then I stopped and waited 
to see what she would say and give her a chance to clear her¬ 
self. I just sat quietly and waited — ” 

“And she said nothing, I suppose?” said Nat. He got 
up out of his chair and walked the room restlessly in unavail¬ 
ing pity. 

. “Why, that’s just what she did — said nothing, I mean,” 
ejaculated Mrs. Ducey, in surprise; “but how did you guess? ” 
“It’s — it’s the way people act sometimes,” said Burke, 
huskily. 

“She just stood there like a statue. And then I said to 
her just as gently and kindly as I could, because I didn’t want 
to make it any harder for her than I could help: ‘Nance,’ 
I said, ‘don’t be frightened. Tell me the truth. I won’t let 
any one hurt you, and nobody shall ever know about it but 
myself. I know you were overcome by a sudden temptation 
when you took my brooch, but you are a very young girl, and 
young girls love pretty things, and I’m not going to blame 
you. I just feel sorry for you. Now you bring the brooch 
back to me, and I promise you I’ll never say a word about it 
to any one.’ I don’t see how I could have been kinder than 
that, do you?” 

“It might have been kinder to have made sure she took it 
first, I think,” groaned the young man, hopelessly. 

“Why, Nathan, I was 'perfectly sure. I don’t believe 
you’ve been listening. The whole thing is as plain as A B C. 
Goodness, don’t you suppose I’d have been glad and happy 
to think that I’d lost it some way, or that some one else had 
stolen it?” cried out Mrs. Ducey, her lips trembling. “It 
was perfectly awful — the most awful thing I ever had to go 
through with. And to find her so hardened —” 

“What did she say or do?” 


242 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Why, she just kept as still and quiet as a stone — per* 
fectly barefaced and callous, staring at me while I was talk' 
ing. And then all at once she burst out laughing — did you 
ever hear of anything so horrible ?” 

“And then what?” said Burke, setting his lips. 

“Well, you know Francie was in the room and Francie would 
interfere — I couldn’t stop her. She ran up to Nance and 
took hold of her hands and began to cry and say she knew 
Nance hadn’t taken it, and she kept saying: ‘Say some¬ 
thing, Nance, say you didn’t do it; you know you didn’t do it!” 
until she got quite hysterical and I had to make her go out 
of the room. It was awful, the whole thing. So then I tried 
and tried to make Nance give it back, but she simply wouldn’t. 
Just said once or twice in a sullen way that she never had had 
it, even when I told her how lenient I was being with her, and 
how some people wouldn’t hesitate to send her to jail.” 

“After that you sent her away, I suppose?” 

“No, I didn’t!” Mrs Ducey exclaimed, flushing with in¬ 
dignation and drawing herself up. “I don’t know what to 
make of you, Nathan; you seem to think I’d be positively 
cruel. I wouldn’t do a thing like that. She went herself. 
If she had stayed, I’d have kept on, and showed her how 
wrong she was, and persuaded her into giving the brooch up 

— unless she’d pawned it or something, and even then we 
could have got the ticket anckgot it back. But you see she 
was afraid to stay — that shows she was guilty; if she’d been 
innocent, she wouldn’t have cared. But she went right off 
that very day, an hour or so afterwards.” 

“You don’t know where she went?” 

“Oh, yes. We heard in a day or two that she had an¬ 
swered an advertisement of a friend of mine — Mrs. David 
Gwynne — you know, you’ve seen her—?” 

Nathan nodded, pausing in his stride about the room. 

“It seems she had been wanting a housemaid, and she 
recognized Nance at once, and never asked any questions; 
just took it for granted, she said, that Nance had had some 
fuss with me and took her right in. She said to me: ‘You 
know, Anne, you’re always fussing with your servants!’ 
Marian Gwynne is so queer—” added Mrs. Ducey, in paren¬ 
thesis — “just as queer as if she were really a Gwynne herself 

— they’re all queer, you know —” 


NATHAN SHUTS THE STABLE DOOR 243 


“Is Nance there now?” asked Nathan, with reviving hope. 

Mrs. Ducey looked shocked. “Why, no, of course not. I 
couldn’t leave Mrs. Gwynne in ignorance, you know — my 
own friend! If it had been somebody I didn’t know, it would 
have been different — but my own friend! Why, I just had 
to. tell her. I sat down and wrote a note and warned her the 
minute I heard Nance was in the house.” 

Burke stood dumb before this exposition of the feminine 
code. “ Then Mrs. Gwynne sent her off, I’ve no doubt ? ” 
he inquired. 

“Oh, gracious, yes! You know the Governor’s house is 
full of elegant things, and then Louise — that’s her daughter 
— is going to be married, and of course she has the greatest 
quantity of clothes and wedding-presents. Marian said it 
was too much of a risk;<ehe’d rather have the inconvenience 
of being without an upstairs-girl.” 

“Have you any idea where Nance went from there? Or 
would Mrs. Gwynne be likely to know ?” 

“Mercy, Nathan, of course not! They’ve been just as busy 
as can be with the wedding for weeks — it’s the day after to¬ 
morrow, and they haven’t had time to think of anything else. 
And anyway you couldn’t keep track of a person like Nance 
unless she had the face to go and hire out to somebody else we 
all knew—but I suppose she didn’t try that again, as it’s three 
or four weeks now and we haven’t heard. I know it’s a dread¬ 
ful thing to have happen, Nathan,” said Mrs. Ducey, with real 
sympathy in her voice; “it must be so hard for you to have a 
girl that you’ve known all your life turn out this way. Do 
you know we thought for a while that you were — were in¬ 
terested in Nance in a different way — a not at all brotherly 
way, you know — you did so much for her. But afterwards 
you never came near her while she was here, so I saw it was 
mere friendship. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier for 
you. But you don’t need to worry so. She’s perfectly ca¬ 
pable of taking care of herself, wherever she is.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

Contains Sundry Social Experiences 

I hope that Burke’s grandchildren will never know a dis¬ 
tress of mind equal to that with which the young man walked 
away from the Ducey house in pursuit of his dreary quest. 
His thoughts beat about in an idle circle of self-reproach, 
self-excuse. Over and over again he repeated to himself 
that had Nance come to him (and why had she not?) and had 
he known all at the time it happened, he still could have said 
and done nothing to move Mrs. Ducey from her conviction. 
She was obstinate and merciless as only a truly good and up¬ 
right woman can be, but to Nathan’s youth and inexperience 
there was something profoundly amazing, even abnormal in 
this association of qualities. He learned to know the world 
of womankind better, but at the moment he raged helplessly 
against what seemed to him a woful lack of logic and hu¬ 
manity and ordinary common sense. To any one who knew 
Nance, even slightly, it was impossible to believe that she 
could have stolen this bauble; it was monstrous to charge 
her with the theft; monstrous to translate the poor thing’s 
astonished silence, her fierce helplessness, as signs of guilt. 
Nathan, who would have freely acknowledged a man’s in¬ 
capacity to understand the girl, at least understood her better 
than the good-hearted, ruthless woman with whom she had 
lived a year. Yet Francie understood her; the remembrance 
stirred him with a throb of tenderness. He went back to the 
office, and lit a candle at his desk, and scrawled a word or 
two of thanks to Francie from a full heart; earnestly en¬ 
treating her to keep on believing in Nance, and to defend her 
when occasion came, and to let him know whenever and 
whatever she might chance to hear of the poor outlaw. He 
was on the edge of signing himself hers affectionately, when 
he remembered with a blush and a kind of laugh that she was 
considered a young lady now, and might very properly 
resent so much familiarity from him, so that he ended by 

244 


SUNDRY SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 


245 


being Sincerely, Nathan Burke, and went out and despatched 
the note with a slightly easier mind. 

Jack Vardaman, whom Nathan found at the room when he 
returned after performing these duties, sitting and chatting 
with Mrs. Sharpless by the reformed and sightly hearth, eyed 
the young man closely as he entered, commenting on his 
worn and weary look. “You’re getting thinner, I believe, 
Nat,” he said; “and you haven’t much margin in that di¬ 
rection. Heavens, what a beak you’ll have! Worse than 
mine — and that’s a hard thing to say of any man’s nose!” 

“ It’s taking care of me and sitting up nights,” said Jim, and 
put out his lean fist and pounded Nathan affectionately on the 
knee. “Just you wait — just you wait till I get you down, 
my lad!” 

Mrs. Sharpless laid down her work and looked over at 
Nathan with a sudden disconcerting acuteness. Her bright 
face softened inexplicably. “What it is, Mr. Burke — what 
has happened?” she said quickly and earnestly; “you 
look so — oh, I know something has happened.” 

“Why, I — I—” stammered Nat, in confusion, a good 
deal startled and touched by this interest; and then he quite 
gave way before their three kind, concerned faces, and told 
them the whole infinitely small and meanly pathetic tale. 
He had not meant to; but the young fellow hungered for 
counsel and sympathy; he wanted confidence, wanted help, 
wanted somebody to listen to his complaints and be influ¬ 
enced by his arguments. 

“ It’s hard to make you understand how I feel about Nance,” 
he said, walking nervously up and down with unusual ges¬ 
tures, all his excitement at last released and mastering him. 
The little audience watched him with wonder; no doubt there 
was something almost painful to them in this sudden violence 
ni so silent and reserved a man. “I feel as if it were somehow 
all my fault — all my fault. I ought to have taken better 
care of her. I promised Darnell — I meant to. But some¬ 
how things interfered — I don’t know how it was — time 
went by — I let it go. On the face of it, you know, it looked 
all right. Anybody would have said she had a good home — 
and so she had. Only I knew all along it wasn’t the home 
for her. But what ought I to have done for her ? Where 
could I have put her? And now this! Why, it’s incredible, 


246 


NATHAN BURKE 


I tell you; I’d as soon call one of you a thief. I wouldn’t 
have believed any woman could be as hard as Mrs. Ducey; 
she hasn’t a shred of proof, not a rag, not a shadow of a reason 
even for a suspicion — but when she was talking to me there, 
why, I saw it would take nothing less than an angel from 
heaven, a miracle, to make her believe otherwise. What’s 
the matter with all the women, anyhow ? Why, even Mrs. 
Slaney, when I told her that a young woman named Darnell 
might possibly come here asking for me — she said none 
had — and if she did to tell her that I was looking for her and 
not let her go away — even Mrs. Slaney looked blank and 
began to hem and haw, and say she didn’t know, and she’d 
always kept a respectable house! What’s Mrs. Slaney got 
against Nance? I suppose she’s heard this wretched story 
— it’s always the way, everybody in the place hears a thing 
except the person most interested — but she might take my 
word for Nance.” 

There was a brief silence after this outburst. Mrs. Sharp¬ 
less took up her work, and set a stitch or two; then she 
abruptly put it down. “Well, but are you so certain about 
this — this girl, Mr. Burke? I mean you think you know 
all about her? She’s very pretty — I’ve seen her at Mrs. 
Ducey’s — and I must say she looked as if she might have an 
awful temper; but, of course, that hasn’t got anything to do 
with this. The trouble is it’s so easy for a young man to be 
deceived in a young woman — a handsome young woman —” 

Nathan looked at her despairingly; he could have groaned 
aloud. 

“Oh, mother, mother, you too!” said Jim, and gave his 
friend a glance of whimsically commingled humor and 
sympathy; “you may as well give ’em up, Nat. I believe 
there never was a woman in this world so good but that she 
was ready to say another woman was no better than she 
ought to be!” 

“I didn’t say that at all, James; you know I wouldn’t say 
a thing like that,” cried his mother, reddening indignantly, 
and with her face quivering a little as sometimes happened 
under Jim’s good-nature satire; “I’m just as sorry for the 
girl as can be. And of course I don’t know anything about 
her character, but I hope she’s all right. I only said —” 

“You only announced a very sound and kindly principle, 


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247 


I know — I know,” said Jim, patting her hand, “never mind 
what I say; don’t feel badly. I’m your angel child, but I’m 
a brute sometimes, I know it.” 

“Anyhow, if Nance were the dangerous character all the 
ladies think she is, she’s getting her deserts apparently,” 
Burke said with bitterness, “being hunted from house to 
house, and now lost to sight utterly! It seems I’m powerless 
to help her now, whatever I could have done once.” 

Vardaman got up and laid his hand on the other’s shoulder. 
“Why, Burke,” he said with a sort of sensible and kindly 
sharpness, “don’t you see how it is? A young man can’t go 
around taking care of a young woman, a kind of a stray young 
woman to whom he’s not even distantly kin, these days. 
Knight-errantry doesn’t gee with our modern notions of 
propriety somehow. You’ve got to be interested in her as a 
grandfather, or, by Jingo, you can’t be interested in her at 
all! Even the grandfathers aren’t any too safe, according 
to the ladies—” 

“Dr. Vardaman!” said Mrs. Sharpless, reddening over 
her whole face, and rising, “I think I’d better leave you to 
talk over the matter among yourselves, gentlemen , since it 
seems l don’t know anything about young women!” 

“Oh, don’t be foolish, mother,” said Jim, pulling her down; 
“let Jack go on. He’s not saying anything improper.” 

“Now you’re not the girl’s brother, and I take it you don’t 
want to marry her — ?” went on Vardaman, unmoved. 

“Good heavens, no!” Nathan ejaculated in some perturba¬ 
tion, “but can’t I —” 

“No, you can’t — you can’t do anything for her,” said the 
doctor, emphatically. “The more you do for her, the more 
rumpus you make over her, the worse it is for the girl. The 
world’s judgments are hard —” said the doctor, with a per¬ 
plexed smile — “but the world’s a deal older than you and I, 
and in the long run I don’t know but that its judgments are 
pretty near correct.” 

“It may be so,” said Nat, gloomily, “but nothing I can do 
now can make her case any worse than it is already. I’ve 
got to find her, if she’s to be found. I’ve searched high and 
low — more people knew about it than I supposed, but no¬ 
body has seen her. I even went to the Lauterbachs — they 
are kind people, they might have taken her in — but they 


248 


NATHAN BURKE 


hadn’t seen or heard anything of her. I thought I’d go out 
to Governor Gwynne’s and inquire. Some of the servants 
might have kept track of her. You know the governor, 
don’t you, Jack ? I’d like you to go with me, if you could 
take the time. It wouldn’t damn poor Nance irrevocably 
to have two men looking for her, would it ? There’s safety 
in numbers.” 

This speech was received in another silence so marked that 
it roused Burke’s attention; he caught a swdft glance passed 
betv/een Jim and his mother, and, looking at the doctor, per¬ 
ceived an abrupt harshness or sternness replacing his ordinary 
genial expression. 

“I — I don’t think it would do any particular good for 
you to have me along,” Vardaman said at last with an effort. 

“I’ll go with you, Mr. Burke, I’ll go; I know Mrs. David 
Gwynne,” said Mrs. Sharpless, hurriedly; “I’m sure I’d be 
glad for you to find — what’s her name? Nance? I’d be 
ever so glad if you could find her. I’d like to help you.” 

They made this visit to the governor’s house — which 
was at an unconscionable distance from towm with a grove of 
trees and a park of its own, in a species of lofty and handsome 
seclusion — in a carriage which Nat got of our acquaintance 
the livery-stable man; and for which, by the way, that gentle¬ 
man refused a cent of hire, as soon as he heard that it was 
meant for Mrs. Sharpless’s use. “You tell that little lady that 
she’s welcome to the best I’ve got any time she wants it,” he 
said gallantly; “she’s a mighty sweet little lady—pretty 
eyes, ain’t she ? ” he further remarked with quite a sentimental 
sigh. “You just tell her she can have anything I’ve got any 
time she feels like it — the parson can preach it out at my 
funeral, I guess, if he lasts that long,” he finished with a 
grin. Burke regaled him with segars and a glass of something 
hot at the Erin-go-Bragh (what would Mrs. Sharpless have 
said if she had known that ?) as a slight return for this courtesy 
and rehearsed the incident to Jim afterwards, consumed 
with laughter, notwithstanding the seriousness of the mo¬ 
ment. “Why, what a dreadful little heart-smasher Ma is!” 
said Jim, in pretended horror; “goodness, it’s immoral! I’m 
afraid Mary gets her abilities by direct inheritance.” 

“I don’t see why you persist in saying things like that 


SUNDRY SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 


249 


about Ma — about your sister,” said Burke, resentfully; “she 
can’t help being — being attractive — she’s not to blame if 
the men — if they hang around her. She — why — she — 
the men can’t help it either.” 

Jim looked up surprised at the other’s warmth. “Why, 
I’m not saying anything against Mary, Nat,” he expostu¬ 
lated reasonably; “lots of girls are flirts — why shouldn’t 
they be ? They haven’t got anything else to do. It doesn’t 
do any harm. You seem to think it something disgraceful.” 

“It might break some poor fellow’s heart,” said Nat, 
coloring as he gave utterance to this sentimental theory, but 
sticking to it manfully, “ lead a man on, and let him hope all 
sorts of things, and then throw him over at the last! If I 
had a sister, I wouldn’t think or say that she’d do a thing 
like that.” 

“Pooh!” retorted the other, good-naturedly cynical, “it’s 
not very often so serious as that. Men may die and worms 
may eat them — but not for love, you know. You must 
have been reading some of these infernal mush-and-milk 
stories in the magazines — Graham’s or Godey’s. By 
George, I’ve got so I never read any of ’em any more, unless 
they’re by that fellow, that Poe — E. A. Poe, you ^iow — 
the one that writes the curdlers. I met a man oroe that 
knew him,” said Jim, not without reverence, “a fellow that 
was out here writing for the Cincinnati Gazette. He says 
Poe drinks like a fish. But drunk or sober, he’s a writer. As 
for your broken-heart business, Nat, you may trust me there 
aren’t many of ’em outside of the novels. I know one man — 
but then,” Jim pursued thoughtfully, “it’s not quite the same 
thing with him. He and the girl had a fuss, and now she’s 
going to marry somebody else, and I don’t think he’ll ever 
marry. He’d laugh at the notion of his heart being broken — 
but he’ll never get over it, just the same.” 

On their way out to the governor’s, Mrs. Sharpless, who, 
it was obvious even to Burke’s masculine senses, had on her 
best black silk and her bonnet with the thread lace veil, and 
was in a little state of tremor and excitement, confided to 
him that she was afraid they were making their visit at a 
most inopportune season. “You know Louise is going to be 
married, Mr. Burke. She’s going to marry Mr. Andrews — 
Leonard Andrews, not Charlie — Leonard is the wealthy 


250 


NATHAN BURKE 


one, you know; that is, he’ll have money, old Mr. Edward 
Andrews’s son. Charlie hasn’t got anything, and then he has 
to take care of his mother and sister —” 

“I know,” said Burke, absently, “I see a good deal of both 
of them. Leonard’s in the bank, and Charlie’s with Lathrop’s 
commission-house right next door to us.” 

“ Yes. Well, it’s Leonard that’s to marry Louise Gwynne, 
you know. The house will be all torn up. Bishop Mcll- 
vaine’s going to marry them, and it’s to be a home wed¬ 
ding—” 

“Well, ours is only a business visit, and they’re not to have 
the wedding till to-morrow, are they? They surely won’t 
be inconvenienced the little time I’ll take. I only want to 
ask the servants a few questions,” said Burke, staring out at 
the doleful winter landscape, and wondering dejectedly where 
in that waste of melting snow and slush, dreary streets, 
tumbledown shanties, and sodden fields — they were trun¬ 
dling slowly through the outskirts of the town — Nance 
might be hiding herself. A thaw was setting in with thin 
persistent rain and a spiteful wind. The roads were ankle- 
deep in semiliquid mud; the sky hung low and looked like 
dirty ^hjte cotton. Just ahead a covered van laden with 
chairs and tables and crates of crockery was stalled in the 
heavy going, and the men in charge had got down and were 
cursing and bawling and heaving at the wheels and the horses 
were straining on the yoke. According to the weather, Miss 
Gwynne’s wedding was an ill-omened venture. 

“Those things must be meant for the Gwynne house,” said 
Mrs. Sharpless, alertly; “mercy, what a time they’re having ! 
It will be awful for all of us driving out to the wedding, won’t 
it ? Such a pity ! Mrs. Lucien Gwynne is going to stop for 
us, and take Mary and me out in her carriage — we’re lucky, 
aren’t we ? It’s on Mary’s account, of course,” said Mrs. 
Sharpless, smoothing her gloves with that little self-effacing 
air of pride and content common to mothers; “Mary’s 
going to play the wedding-march for them — when they 
come in, you know. I believe Mrs. Gwynne wanted to have 
fiddles and a harp — those men that play for all the big 
dances, you know, and the subscription-balls — but Louise 
said she wouldn’t have anybody but Mary Sharpless. 
They’ve always been friends.” 


SUNDRY SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 


251 


“Miss Mary plays beautifully,” said Burke, interested at 
once; “I should think they’d be proud to have her.” 

“ Yes — of course I think so. She won’t play for the danc¬ 
ing afterwards, though, Mr. Burke,” said Mrs. Sharpless, 
hastily; “they’ve hired the men for that.” 

“It’s a shame she has to play at all — it’s a shame for her 
to have to work, anyhow,” growled the young man, whole¬ 
heartedly. 

“Why, she don’t have to, Mr. Burke,” said Mrs. Sharpless, 
with a startled look. “What made you think that?” And 
she explained that Mary only did it for “extras and a little 
pocket-money.” The intelligence surprised Mr. Burke not 
a little, as he had somehow got the idea that the daily bread 
of the Sharpless family depended almost entirely on Mary’s 
exertions. The young lady could not have told him so her¬ 
self; certainly Jim never had; it must have been Nat’s 
own dull guesswork. 

“So funny, Leonard Andrews is so musical, and used to 
come to our house so much to sing with Mary and hear her 
play. And here he’s going to marry Louise Gwynne and she 
hasn’t any more voice than a crow, and doesn’t know one 
tune from the next! So funny the way people marry, isn’t 
it?” said the mother, pensively. “Louise is considered very 
pretty in spite of that fiery red hair — and / don’t think 
that’s such a blemish,” she added with a heroic generosity. 
“She was engaged to Jack Vardaman for a while, but she 
broke it off.” 

“Oh!” said Nat, suddenly illuminated. 

“Yes. I saw you didn’t know about it. Poor Jack! 
Maybe it’s better so, though — marriage is such a lottery,” 
said Mrs. Sharpless, unable, kind and sweet woman as she 
was, entirely to suppress her lurking conviction that maybe 
Dr. Vardaman might have drawn a blank. Burke listened, 
momentarily forgetting his errand, with a feeling oddly 
compounded of relief and anxiety. He was outside the 
bright little social world in which Mary revolved; a dozen 
young men might be laying siege to her, and he would be 
obliged to stand by helpless in his pride and poverty. Yet 
surely she looked at him kindly sometimes. He wondered, 
in his adoring admiration, what miracle had kept her single 
thus far — yet what man could be good enough for her ? Nat 


252 


NATHAN BURKE 


humbly allowed that he himself was not; if he had had money 
and talents and everything the world values to lay at her feet, 
he would still be unworthy of her, the young fellow thought. 
This humility did not prevent his hearing with a throb of 
satisfaction that that overdressed dandy, Leonard Andrews, 
with his voice and his musical tastes, forsooth, could not win 
her. Andrews was really a good-looking and amiable young 
man, and Nat had not thought of him with enmity before; 
but even in defeat the fact that poor Leonard had possibly 
been one of the candidates filled Burke with a kind of trium¬ 
phant dislike. 

The ex-governor’s residence, which was a great, dignified, 
imposing place, with huge pillars and high ceilings and very 
rich furnishings in the fashion of the day, was “torn up” to a 
degree that threw Mrs. Sharpless into a feminine ecstasy. 
Men were erecting a tunnel of awning over the front steps; 
there were step-ladders and chairs everywhere; and a rather 
pretty little girl — red-haired, too — whom Mrs. Sharpless 
called Harriet, and who, I think, was the governor’s youngest 
child, came running to the door, very happy, important, and 
excited, and led the visitors in, chattering meanwhile in her 
high childish voice. She didn’t know whether they could see 
Aunt Marian — everything was so torn up, and they were all 
so busy, but Papa was upstairs in the study — and oh, Mrs. 
Sharpless, just look what the men were doing to our parlors! 
They were, in fact, spreading down acres of floor-cloth and 
others were marking out upon it with red chalk certain mystic 
characters which, Mrs. Sharpless informed Nat delightedly, 
were “the figures for the wedding-quadrille, you know, 
Mr. Burke; the bride’s quadrille, when the bridal party open 
the ball.” They eyed them respectfully. An artist in a 
square white cap was devising the most extraordinary edible 
monuments for table decorations, in a big pantry opening 
into the dining room — pyramids of oranges divided into 
their sections and each section crystallized in a sort of sugar 
frost with a shimmering web of clear, golden, floss-like spun 
candy piled in a cone-shape over all. “The table’s going to 
be elegant, isn’t it?” breathed Mrs. Sharpless, entranced 
before this masterpiece. “Are there going to be two of those 
beehives ?” 

“That ain’t anything,” shrilled little Harriet, excitedly, 


SUNDRY SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 


253 


hopping on one foot; “you ought to see the ice-cream moulds; 
Eve seen ’em. They’re going to have two turtle-doves with 
their beaks together sitting on a platter, and a boat, a big, 
big boat all out of ice-cream in a dish with waves all ’round it, 
and the waves are wine jelly underneath and whipped cream 
on top, ain’t they ? ” She appealed to the caterer, who nodded, 
grinning. “And there’s chicken salad and tongue and ham 
and sandwiches and — and coffee and cake — and oh, her 
cake is all white with flowers and hearts on it, and his has 
got laurel-leaves, and we’re all going to have a piece to sleep 
on!” 

Mrs. Gwynne, a plump, worried little woman in a figured 
cashmere morning-gown and large jet ear-rings, with her 
lace cap awry and a shawl shrugged about her shoulders, 
came shivering in from the side-porch, where she had been 
giving some order, and stared when she saw them. She 
stared harder when Burke was presented and his errand ex¬ 
plained, which Mrs. Sharpless did in a manner that suggested, 
“Well, I know he’s a perfect nuisance, but I couldn’t help it. 
And after all the poor fellow means well. He’s nothing but a 
man, you know.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember the young woman — but really I 
don’t know anything about her, Mr. — ah — I don’t know 
where she went from here, I haven’t had time to —to bother, 
you know — it’s very unfortunate, of course,” said Mrs. 
Gwynne, with her eyes everywhere except on Nathan. 
“Harriet, run and tell them they are not to undo that china 
on the porch, it makes so much muss; that will be the fifth 
time to-day I’ve had it swept. Of course, you can ask the 
other servants; they may know something. Mrs. Ducey’s 
letter gave me to understand — oh, be careful, please, you’ll 
knock into the chandelier — and, of course, you know, Mr. — 
ah — after what she said, I hadn’t really any choice, I simply 
had to dismiss — oh, mercy, I don’t want the piano in that 
corner — excuse me a minute, please, Mr. — ah — I told 
you distinctly I wanted it in this corner. There wouldn’t 
be any room for Mary to sit down, if they ran it back that far, 
Would there, Mrs. Sharpless?” 

“Why, I don’t know,” said the other lady, following Mrs. 
Gwynne into the drawing-room whither she had dashed, and 
calculating with her head on one side. “Yes, there might 


254 


NATHAN BURKE 


be — only her hoop, you know, they take up so much 
room —” 

“ There’s to be a screen around it, so nobody’ll see her 
playing — still it wouldn’t do for her to be too squeezed 
up —” 

They remained in consultation, while two able-bodied 
gentlemen in shirt-sleeves, breathing deep and anon wiping 
their two several brows with two Isabella-colored handker¬ 
chiefs, wheeled the piano backwards and forwards according 
to instructions. Burke, stranded in the dining room, felt 
himself with some impatience utterly forgotten in this petti¬ 
coat world. He waylaid a passing maid-servant and was 
proceeding to his inquiries when the young woman interrupted 
him — she really didn’t know — she’d tell Mr. Gwynne — 
he wanted to see Mr. Gwynne, didn’t he? If he’d just*wait a 
minute — she had to unpack them plates and tumblers — 
she, too, was gone, and Mr. Burke was beginning to wonder 
desperately if he had not better canvass the kitchen and rear 
premises without leave or warrant, when the master of the 
house appeared. 

To Nat’s huge surprise, Gwynne (who himself wore rather 
a neglected and, as it were, second-rate look, and it presently 
appeared, had come downstairs in search of coal for his fire, 
which everybody had forgotten!) remembered him, and shook 
hands, calling him by name, and referring to their previous 
meeting with labored geniality; and heard Burke’s apologies 
and explanations with an effort, at least, to seem interested. 
It is likely that the old gentleman, like Nathan himself, felt a 
certain comfort in the transient company of another male 
being; there was a humor in the situation not wholly lost 
on the governor, although he was by no means of a humorous 
turn. The Honorable Samuel Gwynne was ordinarily a 
chilly, dignified, impersonal sort of man, whose unfortunate 
manner, people said, had militated strongly against his po¬ 
litical success. He was never popular, though nobody could 
have made more conscientious or painful attempts at all the 
arts of popularity. Even young Burke, who came to know 
him well in later years, and to appreciate all the governor’s 
sterling and manly qualities, used to wonder with a kind of 
puzzled pity at his perfunctory suavity. 

“I feel that this is a gross intrusion,” the young fellow 


SUNDRY SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 


255 


explained, “but you understand in the circumstances it is 
imperative for me to find out whatever I can at once, without 
losing any more time —” 

“Certainly, Mr. Burke, certainly,” said Gwynne, with a 
strained heartiness, “I'll have all the servants in. You can 
question them at your leisure — there is really no need for 
all this confusion, but the ladies—” he waved his hand. 
And the cook and sundry others — some half-dozen in all— 
being forthwith summoned, the examination began. 

Burke had not had much hope of it; one of the maids was 
newly come and knew nothing about what had happened. 
The cook, who was an elderly'woman, quite tigerishly respect¬ 
able and of unimpeachable manners, really never had had 
any opinion of the Darnell girl, and she wasn’t at all surprised 
the way things had turned out, for she had said to a friend 
right at the very start, “You mark my words, Maria, that 
Nance young woman will bear watching. That sort’s too 
pretty for their own good.” Hadn’t she said that, Nora ? 
Didn’t you hear her say that to Maria ? It was the day they 
were making the mince-meat, she remembered just as well, 
saying to Maria, You mark my words, there’s something 
wrong with that Darnell girl. And if the young gentleman 
didn’t mind her saying it, seeing she was old enough to be his 
mother, it’s very.easy for a girl — a pretty girl — to take in 
any young man — ! Only one of them, a slip of a girl in her 
teens whom they called Hannah, and who had a kind, homely 
face, burst out crying with her honest, soapy red fists in her 
eyes, and said she liked Nance, she did! And she didn’t 
believe Nance had never stole nothing, she didn’t! And 
Nance hadn’t said where she was going because, Land! the 
poor thing didn’t know. But she, Hannah, had told her to 
try for a place in a boarding-house. “They ain’t as per- 
tickler as ladies, you know, sir, because it’s hard for ’em to 
get any help at all for a boarding-house, on ’count of the 
work,” said the youngster, with a naive shrewdness. 

And this was all. No, not quite all, for Burke’s ill-timed 
visit to Governor Gwynne’s had another result which ever 
afterward appeared to Nat as the final stroke of irony with 
which the Fate, whose province it was to direct his affairs, 
dismissed this mean tragedy of Nance Darnell. 

“Will you have a drink, Mr. Burke?” said the governor, 


256 


NATHAN BURKE 


after the inquiry was finished. “ Marian, you and Mrs. 
Sharpless had better take a little Madeira, hadn’t you ? Sir, 
you handled your — ah — your witnesses, as I may call them, 
with quite a court-room manner. You have the right idea. 
Never bully a witness; engage his confidence and you’ll get 
infinitely better results — that has been my experience. 
Help yourself, sir,” said Gwynne, affably, and poured out, for 
his own part, the weakest mixture imaginable, which he sipped 
slowly and with no particular gusto. Old Mr. Marsh told 
Nat afterwards that Gwynne disliked whiskey, and had been 
obliged to cultivate conviviality like one of the fine arts. 
“You — ah — you are studying law, I understand, Mr. 
Burke?” 

The young man colored and stammered as he said yes, 
and answered the governor’s leading questions at large; he 
was highly flattered by the old politician’s notice, whether it 
was prompted by genuine interest or not; and blushed after¬ 
wards when he remembered how freely he talked about him¬ 
self and his work. 

“I heard so from my nephew Gilbert, whom I have with 
me in the office, as I have no doubt you know. He tells mr 
he has met you several times at the Court-house,” the gov¬ 
ernor continued with that civility, which, try as he would, 
was entirely devoid of warmth. 

“Oh, yes, I know Mr. Gilbert Gwynne,” said Burke, won¬ 
dering privately if it would have been possible to have lived 
a day in our city and not known some member of the Gwynne 
family. The connection was very large, and every one of 
them abode — more or less — in the shadow of the govern¬ 
or’s wing. 

“Yes. What you say about your private studies interests 
me greatly, Mr. Burke — it reminds me of my own young 
days. My youth was — er — without many advantages,” 
said the governor, sipping his weak punch in a modest way; 
“as I look back now, I may truthfully say I am glad of 
it —” and he added some handsome phrases about “Repub¬ 
lican simplicity,” “the dignity of toil,” and “the delights of 
difficult, honorable achievement,” which, Burke thought, 
bore a striking resemblance to the peroration of the governor’s 
speech in support of Harrison during the last campaign. 
G Wynne’s own large family of boys were growing up a reck- 


SUNDRY* SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 


257 


less, untamable set, who never showed the least desire to work, 
and of whom everybody prophesied an evil end. “It would 
give me sincere pleasure to be of assistance to you, Mr. Burke. 
If opportunity occurs, I hope you will remember that I am 
always more than pleased to have any earnest young man read 
in my office, and to give him the benefit of my long acquaint¬ 
ance with the theory and practice of law. I am an older 
soldier, sir, not a better. Ingenuas didicisse — I dare say 
you can supply the rest,” said Governor Gwynne, very ele¬ 
gantly. And the carriage was called, and we drove away. 

And this was the sole and most unlooked-for outcome of 
Nathan’s search! For if it had not been for poor Nance’s 
misfortunes, — misfortunes which, right or wrong, Burke 
always laid in part at his own door, — he never would have 
gone to Governor Gwynne’s, never have met that statesman 
in this domestic intimacy and familiarity, never have been 
offered a place in Gwynne’s office, a corner of his aegis. I 
dare say Mr. Burke could have got along tolerably well with¬ 
out, and cut just as notable a figure in the world. He rested 
content not to aim very high, but to hit where he aimed; and 
no doubt these events which seemed to him so momentous 
were trivial enough after all — hardly worth recording even 
for his devoted grandchildren, who will feel it a pious duty to 
read through all the old fellow’s prattle. Yet every man’s 
life is made up of these infinite smallnesses, and where would 
the sea be, pray tell, but for the multitudinous drops of water ? 



CHAPTER XIX 

In which the Bar receives a Notable Addition 

Nowadays I feel a shock of surprise, a kind of feeble 
wonder, when I remember how great and despotic was the 
part played by Time and Distance upon this planet when 
Nathan Burke was young. Men’s means of getting about 
were no better than they had been in the Dark Ages ; it was 
ten years before that beneficent instrument, Morse’s tele¬ 
graph, clicked its first message for us; the roads, for the first 
two months of the year, were in such a state that Legislature 
and the circuit courts never sat during that time, it being 
impossible to reach the capitol, or anywhere else; we had to 
pay to take our letters out of the post-office, and used to send 
them privately by any friend whom we could suborn. Sena¬ 
tors and Congressmen got theirs through under a “frank,” 
and lucky was the man who knew one of these law-givers. 
When, as not infrequently happens, I hear some member of 
my lessening staff of contemporaries lamenting the good old 
times, I mildly recall these drawbacks to his mind. And Jim 
Sharpless is in the habit of remarking that the only good * 
thing about the good old times (in his observation) is 
the indisputable fact that deer-meat was only seven cents a 
pound! 

But, taking these things into consideration, it is not sur¬ 
prising that every effort Nathan made to find the poor girl 
he had promised his old friend to protect and care for, failed; 
the search had begun too late. The young man spared no 
trouble in his unavailing anxiety and regret. He informed 
the police; he put — with an intolerable shrinking — a little 
notice in the corner of the paper, the Journal, which came 
out only once a week during this slack season, although it 
was a tri-weekly and even a daily whenever the Legislature 
was sitting or anything of importance was going on; he 
pried into all sorts of likely and unlikely places, followed up 
two or three false clews, sought amongst the dregs with less 

258 


THE BAR RECEIVES A NOTABLE ADDITION 259 


desire to find her than unspeakable relief at not finding her, 
and at last went one day with a stricken heart to view a body 
which had been hauled out of the Scioto a mile or so below 
town and conveyed to the coroner’s. “Th’ ice has kep’ her 
real good,” one of the officials informed him; “you kin 
reckonize her easy — her features is all there. They fished 
her out — she’d floated to th’ top, of course — at a bend, 
y’know, where they’s a kinder back-water that swep’ her 
up agin th’ shore. She’s got on a blue waist *— did your girl 
have on a blue waist?” 

“I don’t know,” groaned Nat, in a choking apprehension. 
But it was not Nance; the poor creature in the blue waist 
was a much older woman, with gray hair clinging to her 
awful discolored temples; and they buried her, next day or 
so, in potter’s field. 

It would be claiming too much to say that this sad thing 
shadowed Burke’s spirits permanently, or even for a very 
long while. There is no sorrow, no suffering, no calamity in 
Life’s bestowal which we cannot bear tolerantly, and to which 
we cannot, by some hook or crook, adjust ourselves. If you 
and I were forever to be dwelling on our losses and failures, 
on death and disappointment, this world would be a dull and 
doleful place. We may as well make up our minds to it, no 
action is long regretted and nobody is much missed. Les 
morts vont vite ! It’s well they should; it’s well we should have 
our grief and dismiss it, and go about our business of living as 
best we can. Come, let us be plain; I have lived awhile, 
and setting aside young children, I have yet to know the 
person whose return after half-a-dozen years — or months! — 
of death, would not occasion a great deal of inconvenience, 
and even some scandal. Why should it not be so ? We must 
live, we must scratch along somehow, and it’s no sin to forget. 
Nat was young; he had his way to make; he was not of a 
despondent, brooding, or impressionable nature. He had, I 
# think, a good heart, and was steadfast in his friendships and 
beliefs; and if he had done wrong, he tried his best to repair 
it. But, finding that it could not apparently be repaired, 
perhaps the young man is not to be blamed for finally ceasing 
to think about it. All this while he was diligent at his daily 
work, and, as usual, did not take many people into his confi¬ 
dence. Nobody wanted to know his troubles, he used to 



260 


NATHAN BURKE 


think, with a kind of laugh; they were too busy telling him 
their own. And it was only to Sharpless and old Mr. Marsh 
that he rehearsed Governor Gwynne’s unprecedented offer. 

“I can’t think why he did it,” he told the old dictator at 
the store, openly; “he didn’t need to the least in the world. 
I’ve always understood he was very kind to young men just 
starting out in the law —* but I didn’t suppose he’d be that 
kind. I think perhaps he just felt rather kindly towards 
everybody about that time — what with this wedding and 
all — and worked off a little of the good feeling on me. Prob¬ 
ably he’d have done the same for anybody that came along, 
so there’s no need for me to get cocky about it, I guess. I 
don’t want to presume on it; I was a little uncertain whether 
I’d better take him up, or not (it would be a big thing for me, 
you know, to study in his office, I — I’d like to mighty well), 
but I met Gilbert Gwynne the other day, and he spoke about 
my coming there. So I’m going up every day now at the 
noon hour, or in the evening, or any spare time I happen to 
have. There’s a couple of other men jn the office — Archer 
Lewis, and that cousin of the governor’s, Steven Gwynne, 
the one that’s a little queer, you know, and Gilbert and my¬ 
self. I find I’m about as far along as the rest in some ways 
and a little behind ’em in others, and I’ve wasted a lot of time 
studying things that won’t ever do me much good — I didn’t 
know, you see. But I guess any sort of study is good for 
one. The governor’s very pleasant to all of us; he doesn’t 
come down every day. I’ve only seen him once or twice 
since I’ve been going. Gilbert says he thinks his uncle means 
to relinquish the practice gradually, but he’s always been a 
worker and he hates to let go altogether.” 

“ Huh, that ain’t all there is of it, ” said Marsh, acutely; 
“I know Gwynne pretty well — I’ve known him for twenty- 
five years. He don’t give a damn for the law-practice now— 
he’s made his money. He just holds on because he can’t bear 
to give up and set back out of the public eye, as you might 
say. He knows if he retired from practice, and left the # 
office and kind of settled down out at that big place of his, 
why, he’d be forgotten in three shakes of a cow’s tail. There 
ain’t anything to it for him but to sit around where people 
can’t fail to see him. He talks about being ‘out of politics’ 
— all bluff! He’s just as keen as ever after notice and 


THE BAR RECEIVES A NOTABLE ADDITION 261 


popularity; there ain’t hardly any kind of nomination, ex¬ 
cept for Police Judge, that Sam G Wynne wouldn’t take. I 
ain’t running him down, you know. He’s a smart man and 
a good lawyer, and as honest as the run of politicians, I 
guess. But, Nathan—” said the sage, giving his compan¬ 
ion a sharp glance out of eyes which seemed to have grown 
smaller and more deeply bedded in wrinkles than ever of late 
years — “Sam Gwynne’s a disappointed man. He’s never 
got to where he wanted to.” 

“Why, he’s been governor of this State twice — two 
terms!” interposed the other. Old George put that fact 
aside with a slighting gesture. 

“Yes, I know—but he’d have liked to work up a little 
higher, and he’s never quite been able to. People might 
trust him, but, by damn, they don’t like him enough. He 
hasn’t given up hope yet; he’s always making some move 
for popularity. But he’s a cold man; people can see it’s 
all put on with him. To be sure it’s all put on with the rest 
of ’em — kissing the babies, and shaking hands with the 
boys, and borrowing Pa’s pipe for a smoke, and telling 
the woman he never ate such stew and dumplings — but 
Gywnne can’t act it well. He pumps it up and they know 
it. He’d do better not to try so hard.” 

Burke listened with an odd discomfiture. In spite of all 
his fine disclaimers, and in spite, too, of that very artificiality 
in Governor Gwynne’s manner which Nat himself had de¬ 
tected, the youth had cherished a secret belief that some¬ 
thing noteworthy about him had drawn the governor’s eye. 
It was not very agreeabfe to be informed in cold blood that 
he was after all nothing but a pawn on the board, that to 
“clinch the young men’s vote,” and never let slip a chance 
to get “ hand-in-glove with everybody, no matter how insig¬ 
nificant” (I quote Mr. Marsh) was a recognized manoeuvre 
in the game. Nat had to smile at his own conceit. It is 
so hard for an honest man to be honest with himself, I think 
we should take more pity on the rogues. When I announce 
that I know I’m not handsome, why, damme, sir, it’s your 
business to demur. What d’ye mean by acquiescing with that 
cheerful grin ? I’d just as lief confess that I’m not clever, 
but you tell me so, and I’ll have some ado not to knock you 
down! 



262 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Gywnne worked pretty hard this last campaign, for a 
man of his age,” said Marsh (who was at least ten years 
older); “and he had a right to expect something. He’d, 
have got something, too, I haven’t any doubt; but here 
within a month after the inauguration Harrison dies and 
Tyler comes in, and that knocks Gywnne’s chances flatter 
than a busted balloon. He’s not a personal friend of Tyler’s, 
like he was of Harrison, and he can’t bring any pressure to 
bear on him. Hard lines, ain’t it?” concluded the old man 
with a sort of cynical sympathy. Was there a creature on 
earth in whom George Marsh believed ? What kind of a 
world must that be, Burke wondered, in which Marsh passed 
his niggling, huckstering, striving, doubling, planning exist¬ 
ence? Friends, home, a wife and children, were left out of 
it; trust and affection were left out of it; he might have had 
these, yet not been happy, and in fairness it ought to be 
said that he never seemed unhappy. We are so fond of 
that splendid moral spectacle of Dives sitting lonely and 
friendless and bitter-hearted at his great rich table, and 
Lazarus humbly happy over his porridge with a wife and 
seven children, not a penny in his ragged pockets, but con¬ 
tent in his soul — I say we are so fond of drawing this pious 
contrast that we are liable to overlook the fact that the shoe 
is sometimes on the other foot. I should not be surprised 
to find out that Lazarus is not infrequently a selfish, mean- 
spirited, lazy, blatant cur enough; and Dives a hard-work¬ 
ing and generous old gentleman, notwithstanding the luxu¬ 
ries with which he has had the bad taste to surround himself. 

“ I wouldn’t be in Gwynne’s boots'for a good deal,” Nathan 
said to his friend Sharpless afterwards; “ he can’t do anybody 
a good turn without some one hinting he has an axe to grind. 
It’s sad; you’d like to believe in him and people won’t let you. 
I never have felt any leaning towards a political career, and 
now I feel less than ever.” 

“Oh, bosh.! I believe he has taken a fancy to you, and 
really likes to have you in the office. Take him at his face 
value — you don’t lose anything by it,” said Jim, warmly. 
He had a stanch faith in Burke’s winning gifts and per¬ 
sonality. 

Jim was up and about now, and back at his queer, random, 
nondescript work of journalism long before this, the sight of 


THE BAR RECEIVES A NOTABLE ADDITION 263 


him in renewed health having been welcomed by his motley 
crew of acquaintances with a fervor that both touched and 
gratified; and these latter, under Jim’s energetic leadership, 
had been of no slight assistance to Burke in his inquiry. 
Their quarters were a little lonesome without his mother’s 
kind and gracious presence. Mrs. Sharpless had gone back 
to the parsonage. And Miss Mary Sharpless no longer 
appeared of an afternoon, daintily picking her way along the 
squalid cobblestones, lighting the dingy precincts like a star 
(this is Wha^Mr. Burke poetically fancied, but prudently 
never saicL^Essing through the rabble of livery-stable hands 
and coars^mids-splashing women, and dreadful dirty little 
rowdy boys, and flea-harassed dogs, and desperate slinking 
cats, and weird, witch-like, scuttling hens — passing through 
untainted and serene like the Lady in Milton’s poem, Burke 
thought. Strangely enough, the neighbors, who had all be¬ 
come charitably or inquisitively interested in Jim’s illness, 
regarding his recovery or death equally as a Heaven-sent 
sensation, paid very little attention to Mary’s arrival or 
departure in comparison to the sentiment which her mother 
aroused. I am sure the livery-stable man would not have 
loaned his carriage for Miss Sharpless. A child next door 
named Mrs. Sharpless “the lady that makes the pretty little 
walkings,” by which it meant her small foot-prints through 
the slush and mud, and used to get in her way, and hold to her 
skirts, unrebuked, with sticky little paws, and howl dismally 
when she passed out of sight. The youngster never did aught 
but stare and pout at Mary, whose “walkings” were even 
smaller and prettier than her mother’s; the other children 
made faces and ran away, rather to the young lady’s relief, 
I dare say. “They’re so horribly dirty, poor little things !” 
she explained to Nathan, drawing her delicate petticoats 
aside. Mrs. Slaney sniffed lamentably the whole day Mrs. 
Sharpless left, and the laundress across the street and the 
charwoman who lived in two rooms over the laundress came 
and drank tea and sniffed with her. They used to run after 
Nat and stop him on the street to ask after Jim’s mother. 
Nobody ever inquired about Mary. “It’s because she’s 
young and pretty — the women can forgive each other any¬ 
thing but that,” Burke said to himself, a trifle bitterly, re¬ 
viewing his recent experience with the sex. 


264 


NATHAN BURKE 


The fact that he himself could seldom see Mary now, and 
that other men enjoyed that privilege — being no more 
worthy, by heavens, than Nat Burke ! — and might be tak¬ 
ing advantage of it to make all kinds of love to her, occa¬ 
sionally produced in the young gentleman moods of terrific 
cynicism and melancholy, when he was dark, gloomy, and 
sarcastic to a degree that filled his fellow-clerks and students 
with wonder and suspicion. Fortunately he had too much 
to do and was too heartily interested in his work to be dream¬ 
ing of his lady-love all the time, — no sane, healthy man 
ever did that, no, nor even a fifth nor a tenth part of his 
time, for that matter. And Burke had the weakest possible 
foundation for dreams anyhow. He had never held Mary’s 
hand a second longer or with a shade closer pressure than 
civility regulates nor uttered a word other than the most 
diluted generalities on the subject nearest his heart. He 
could not help looking at her, watching her — was she 
aware of it ? The glance of her gray eyes under those be¬ 
wildering long black lashes brought the blood to the young 
fellow’s face, set his heart thumping like a trip-hammer — 
did Mary know that? The faint shell-pink in her cheeks 
never changed; unquestionably her heart beat no faster 
than any well-behaved girl’s should. Her slim hands never 
faltered on the piano-keys — and there was that donkey 
of a Nathan clumsily turning the music for her — all in the 
wrong places, nc doubt, which she bore with an angelic pa¬ 
tience — in such a fluster as he bent over her neatly woven 
black braids that he could scarcely breathe! She sang for 
him in her sweet, fliisy voice, with all sorts of quavers and 
grace-notes, those self-same insipid, sentimental, mawkish 
ditties which Nat had heard performed by various belles 
in Mrs. Ducey’s parlor — which he had heard and abhorred. 
There he sat, the simpleton, and listened entranced. Did 
Mary know that she had fascinated him, and did she en¬ 
courage him ? Who am I that I should fathom these mys¬ 
teries ? And if she had, would it have been any great harm ? 

But these delightful times were all over and done with 
now, since the ladies had no longer any occasion to visit Jim, 
and the Reverend Mr. Sharpless’s embargo was revived and 
active. The flinty old man persevered in his self-appointed 
way; there was something inconceivably childish, incon- 


THE BAR RECEIVES A NOTABLE ADDITION 265 


ceivably deliberate and mature about it. He passed his 
son in the street, looking him full in the face — for he would 
stoop to no tricks, and scdrned to make pretences — without 
sign of recognition. “How do you dq, Mr. Burke ?” he said 
in his rotund, oratorical voice, and went on, erect and stern. 
Jim looked after him, both distress and amusement in his 
expression. “He suffers for that, Nathan,” he said as they 
walked away; “and am I helped by it ? Not at all. Father 
is trying to be consistent, at any rate; he’s doing now what 
he’ll have to do through all eternity, according to his creed. 
The blessed can’t take any notice of the damned, can they ? 
It would be uncomfortable and dispiriting and likely to get 
on one’s nerves to see an acquaintance toasting over a brisk 
fire, stimulated by a handy imp or two, I should think. The 
contradiction is that father expects to be happy eternally 
doing the very thing that makes him unhappy here ! Have 
you seen my mother or Mary lately ?” 

“Why, no — I — I don’t go there, you know,” said Nat, 
a little confused. The truth was he had taken it for granted 
that he was outside the pale with Jim himself; and gone 
back uncomplainingly to his previous devices of lingering 
about in the back of church, altering his course to pass the 
Sharpless home, and keeping a watch for Mary on the street. 
He always got a smile and nod from her now; quite often 
she would stop and speak to him. The conversation was 
invariably directed upon Jim or her mother?* or the weather, 
or something equally impersonal, to be sure — but upon 
Mary’s lips the simple statement that two and two make 
four would have possessed an indefinable charm for Burke. 

“Why not?” Jim asked him. “I wish you would some¬ 
times — just to keep me in closer touch with them. John 
Vardaman goes once in a while; but of course he’s pretty 
busy with his practice, and then John doesn’t seem to care 
much about going to see girls any more. I don’t know 
whether he’ll ever get over that other business — mother 
told you, didn’t she? Jack’s a good fellow — I wish he 
would marry Mary,” said Jim, in a tone that moved Burke 
to ask in a painstakingly firm and clear voice if there had 
been any talk of such a match ? 

“Yes,— a little. Not in the family, you know. Neither 
one of ’em has ever said anything, and I’m sure John’s never 


266 


NATHAN BURKE 


asked her — but people will talk around — one can’t help 
hearing gossip. I’d be glad of it — not because John has 
independent means, you know —” 

“As if I thought that!” 

“Well, Nat, it’s not such a bad thing, as the world goes,” 
said Jim, surprised at the other’s vehemence; “somehow 
I think Mary would be likely to fall in love with some fellow 
that had money. Mary’s got her feelings pretty well under 
control. She’s not mercenary, of course, — but why, a 
man with money generally has the best of it with girls. But 
Jack Yardaman has a hundred good qualities to recommend 
him, even if he hadn’t a cent.” 

“Yes, he has!” said poor Nat, miserably. What chance 
would he have with a man like Vardaman in the race ? He, 
at least, would be a fit husband for her, Burke thought with 
a sigh, a fine and kindly man, an educated, travelled, talented 
gentleman. There was a vast difference between the doctor 
and that good-looking popinjay of an Andrews who, any¬ 
how, was married right and tight and safely out of the way. 
Mary had not wanted him with all his money, or expecta¬ 
tions, Nat said to himself with a glow of tender pride in 
this vindication of her disinterestedness. Evidently Jim 
did not understand, never would understand her, for all his 
cleverness and his swift sympathy. Nathan tried to think 
of Vardaman without jealousy; what more ought he to ask 
than that Mar^ should be happy ? 

Burke was somewhat surprised to discover that ex-Gov- 
ernor Gwynne’s practice, which he had supposed was con¬ 
cerned only with large transactions and weighty people, em¬ 
braced, on the contrary, all sorts and conditions of men, and 
every variety of legal business. No fish seemed to be too small 
for that net which Gwynne was eternally spreading: democ¬ 
racy— equality — simplicity — were his slogan; I have 
seen him borrow a chew of tobacco (which he loathed) of an 
humble constituent; he would have worn hob-nail boots and 
gone without his collar had that been agreeable to his ideas 
of personal dignity and cleanliness. To Burke there was 
something painful in this weakness of a strong man; in every 
other act of his life the governor displayed a good mind, a 
high character, unimpeachable honesty; but ambition, 


THE BAR RECEIVES A NOTABLE ADDITION 267 


which makes some men heroes, made him only feeble and 
sometimes a little ridiculous. In the office every one took 
a hand at bolstering up this fictitious republicanism; the 
man who wanted to replevin a drove of hogs was laboriously 
made to feel as important and necessary as any member of 
those deputations of capitalists who desired to take the legal 
steps for incorporating this, bonding that, entering suit 
against the other. These latter dignitaries, it is true, were 
always ushered at once into the rear office, a handsomely 
appointed room where the eminent counsel sat in elegant 
retirement, very different from the free-and-easy quarters 
of old George Marsh farther down the street. Whereas 
the wronged proprietor of the hogs had to be content with 
the outer office and the advice of Mr. Gilbert Gwynne — 
who, however, always laid the case before his uncle (so he 
said) and secured the governor’s carefully weighed opinion 
before taking any kind of action. Gilbert was a conscientious 
henchman. Once in a while the Honorable Samuel Gwynne 
himself came forth and shook hands with the farmers 
and drovers and inquired after their wives and families and 
everybody in their neighborhood to the third and fourth 
generation. These outer precincts were themselves well 
supplied in a solid plain style with desks and arm-chairs and 
glazed book-cases along the walls. Archer Lewis, 1 who was 
a sprightly young man, about Burke’s own age, of a quick, 
bright mind and most genial temper, prosecuted his studies 
with a fair amount of zeal at one of the desks; and Steven 
Gwynne, a cousin or distant relative of the governor’s, some¬ 
times occupied the other. He was a talkative, erratic sort 
of fellow, good-looking, and rather dull in an extraordinary 
fashion, not without humor and some kindliness, and a good 
deal of harmless conceit. The young men, who already 
knew Burke, welcomed him heartily; Gilbert Gywnne 
examined him and directed his studies — under the govern¬ 
or’s explicit advice, as he did not fail to tell Nathan, who 
reported some of these proceedings, grinning, to his inti¬ 
mates. Dr. Vardaman used to hail him on the street, 
and inquire with a severe face how far he had progressed in 
the “ ingenuous- arts” and whether Governor Gwynne had 


Still living (1884) and my very good friend. —N. B. 


268 


NATHAN BURKE 


succeeded in “mollifying his manners” yet. “You can 
supply the rest of the quotation, of course,” says Jack, pom¬ 
pously. And Nat, thinking of the farmers and drovers 
with their rough boots and their red worsted comforters and 
their big red knuckles and their plug-tobacco, had to laugh. 
Indeed, these plain clients of the governor’s rather affected 
Mr. Burke’s company; they liked him, albeit he never 
chewed with them, nor asked after the wives and babies; 
many of them remembered him from the old days, or from 
his association with Mr. Marsh. When they happened 
upon him at odd times and seasons in the Gwynne office, 
they opened their troubles with an amazing freedom and 
confidence; he could argue them into a better frame of mind 
and an amicable settlement with a facility, patience, and 
good-temper which attracted Gilbert Gwynne’s favorable 
notice, although, Heaven knows, it was no great feat nor was 
Nat particularly gifted. He possessed the chance-bestowed 
advantage of being one of these people by birth and inheri¬ 
tance, and of thoroughly understanding their point of view; 
he could meet them on their own ground and speak their 
shibboleth. He knew in intimate detail the whole of their 
hard, simple lives, having so lived himself; all their desires, 
standards, prejudices, loves, and hates he knew, fashioned his 
discourse accordingly, and touched with them at a hundred 
unconsidered points. Often they had that common remem¬ 
brance which is one of the most enduring of ties. “Ain’t 
you John Burke’s son?” one middle-aged backwoodsman 
asked him; and for a moment this plaintiff — he had some 
grievance about a culvert and a right-of-way — forgot his 
cause, and they talked of the Scioto and the Olentanjy, and 
the old Smoky-Row Road where he lived, and of John Burke 
and Jake Darnell whom he had known, and of the young 
mother whom Nathan himself could not remember. “Ye 
favor yer pap some,” said the other; “but I guess yeh take 
after yer maw’s fambly most. Yer maw she had real light 
hair — she was a Granger. Her folks come from Canady, 
I’ve heern tell. I reckon they was Refugees, wa’n’t they ? 
They useter tell how th’ Gov’ment give a place fer ter live 
— a right smart bit of land — to every Britisher that moved 
in here from Canady, er ’crost th’ lakes endurin’ th’ war 
times. ’Twas a kinder indoocement, yeh might say, en a 


THE BAR RECEIVES A NOTABLE ADDITION 269 


whole pilin’ lot of ’em come. That was why they called ’em 
Refugees, ’n’ they called th’ land th’ Refugee Track. Least- 
ways I rec’lect ’em tellin’ ’bout it when I was a boy. ’Pears 
like th’ Track was located round here somewheres. How 
was that, anyhow ?” On being told that the city was built 
upon part of this historic ground — “ I swanny, yeh don’t 
say!”, he ejaculated in a sort of meditative surprise; “well, 
then, it was true after all. I alluz kinder jedged it might be 
one of these stories folks like to tell. Yeh ain’t ben out ter 
th’ country much recent, hev ye? Not in ten years, some¬ 
body was tellin’ me. ’Course, not havin’ any kin there, yeh 
wouldn’t be likely to.” Burke, coloring, and a little ashamed, 
had to admit it — but it wasn’t quite so long, between six 
and seven years, that was all — and of course he meant to 
ride out to the Williamses and look everybody up sometime 
soon, oh, very soon — next summer, he guessed. And then 
Governor Gwynne, having doubtless been notified by the 
vigilant Gilbert, came out and greeted his client warmly, 
and said some very kind and agreeable things about Burke 
that made the young man redden again for pure pleasure — 
for, conceited or not, I believe for once the governor meant 
them. 

“Who were your people anyway, Burke?” young Lewis 
asked him afterwards, not at all inquisitively, but with a 
genuine interest. “Don’t you know anything about’em? 

I was looking up a title the other day — it was a piece of 
property where the tannery is, you know, that James Hunt* 
& Sons bought of Mr. Marsh — and it went back to a man 
named Granger. By George, his name was Nathan, too, I 
remember ! Was he a relative ? ” 

“Might have been — you can’t prove it by me,” said Nat, 
who, perhaps, had had sundry similar experiences in the 
course of his legal labors; “Granger’s not an uncommon 
name, nor Burke either, for that matter. I’ve never bothered 
much about my family—” and seeing the other look at 
him a little curiously, he added, half-apologetic and half- 
defiant: “I’m not saying I don’t care, you know. But I — 
well, I don’t take the time to think about it. I’m too busy.” 

“You’re a self-made man, that’s what you are, Nat,” 
said his friend, soberly. 

There came a day at last, when, without any beating of 


270 


NATHAN BURKE 


cymbals or braying of trumpets, mighty as the event seemed 
in his own eyes, Mr. Burke was admitted into that great 
and noble Temple of Jurisprudence (as he had heard Gov¬ 
ernor Gwynne call it) in the outer porticos whereof he had so 
long been laboring; and stood for the third and final time 
in his life upon the threshold of a career. The United States 
Court on circuit was in its spring session, and the court 
(Judge Swan) appointed Mr. Mease Smith and Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs, whose names will be well remembered by the bar of 
this State, to examine the candidate. Burke went with 
these gentlemen (who were chatting together in a very light- 
minded and unconcerned style, considering the solemnity of 
the occasion) into a little room opening off the marshal's 
office to the right of the door as you entered the old Court¬ 
house, which was still in use at this time. And having 
managed to answer their questions in a tolerably clear¬ 
headed and concise manner, the clerk was called in and ac¬ 
cording to the informal fashion of that day, then and there, 
during March term, a.d. 184-, of the Supreme.Court of the 
State of Ohio, Nathan Burke, Esq., was certified and licensed 
to practise as Attorney and Counsellor at Law and Solicitor 
in Chancery in the Several Courts of this State — “and may 
the Lord have mercy on your soul!" said one of his judges, 
in a hollow voice, observing, it may be, the gravity of the 
young fellow's expression; and both gentlemen laughed aloud 
and shook his hand and wished him success. 

Nat went out and stood at the top of the Court-house 
steps; it was a bright and blowing day, and the face of Nature 
being nowise changed, notwithstanding the recent event, 
he took for a good omen this cheerful sky. Judge Burke 
— Attorney-general Burke — Chief-justice Burke — what 
heights did he not scale in that triumphant moment! As 
he stood, Jim Sharpless and Vardaman came walking to¬ 
gether from the direction of the doctor's office, and, glanc¬ 
ing up, halted, struck, no doubt, by something in Burke’s 
air, for they had known he was going to present himself for 
admittance shortly. 

“What, Nathan! Hail, Nathan!" said the doctor, waving 
his cane; but Jim, who possessed a quick almost woman¬ 
ish intuition in these matters, ran up the steps and 
seized his friend's hands. “Is it all over, Nat? Is it over? 


THE BAR RECEIVES A NOTABLE ADDITION 271 


Have you passed ?” he cried out. Nat told him, pleased, 
proud, touched. There was another great time of shaking 
hands, and Vardaman fell into a burlesque attitude and 
shouted out, “ Hie labor extremis , hie meta longarum viarum! ” 
in a tremendous bellow to the astonishment of the passers- 
by. Longarum viarum indeed! Nobody but Burke knew 
how long had been that way. 

During these congratulations there emerged from the doors 
of the Erin-go-Bragh across the way, io, that very same 
stout, short, and jocund gentleman upon whose hint Burke 
had begun his studies some three or four years ago; and 
whom, in fact, the young man had seen many times since at 
lawyers’ offices or at the Court-house, where he might be 
arguing a case with a great deal of vigor, acuteness, and 
power of persuasion. He now came across the street, eying 
them gravely, so that Burke gave him a sort of tentative 
salute. Upon that the other stopped short. “ You have the 
advantage of me, sir,” he said very pleasantly; “yet your 
face is perfectly familiar. I suppose we have met?” 

They had met, and Burke reminded him how and when — 
judiciously leaving out some details — in a slight confusion, 
adding that he had acted on the other’s advice. 

“What!” ejaculated the lawyer, and smiled. “I builded 
better than I knew. You’ve just been admitted, hey? 
What? Now? This moment?” He walked up to Nat 
and prodded him on the chest with a rigid forefinger. “Ahem! 
Mr. Burke,” said he, profoundly, “what is Law?” 

“Well, I’ll be damned if I know!” said the young fellow, 
happy and reckless. “ Will you come and have a drink, sir ? ” 

“Young man, I never drink!” said the other, majestically; 
and walked off with a mighty flourish, laughing his loud, 
jolly laugh. 


CHAPTER XX 


Contains Some Business and a Good Deal of Pleasure 

The right to putr “esquire” after his name, which he had 
striven so earnestly to acquire — although, indeed, he might 
have adorned himself with that title at any time without 
attracting much notice — was, I am pained to state, almost 
all that Mr. Burke got out of his late elevation for some 
three or four months thereafter. He rented a little room up 
one pair of stairs over a shoemaker’s shop in a two-story 
frame building on Gay Street just off of High; installed a 
deal table, a couple of chairs, and a case of shelves which he 
knocked together with his own trusty right arm and hand 
and hammer out of an old packing-box got from the store; 
hired a sign-painter to do him a foot-square board with his 
name and profession tidily exhibited thereon, and affixed 
it to the wall at the bottom of the stairs; and, finally, in¬ 
serted a card in the paper (it was the universal custom in my 
youth), informing the public that Nathan Burke, Att’y-at- 
Law and Notary Public, had opened an office in the above 
described locality, estates settled, collections promptly 
attended to, referred by permission to the Hon’ble Samuel 
Gwynne, George Marsh, Esq., etc. And having taken all 
these important steps, there the young gentleman sat in 
uninterrupted leisure for the space of time I have mentioned, 
improving his shining hours by a close review of what books 
he had or could borrow, and wondering intermittently if 
an era of world-wide peace had set in, to the extinction of 
all legal industry. Fortunately he had always been a thrifty 
youth, accustomed to a sparing way of life, so that he was 
tolerably well fortified against this lean period; and being 
of a confident and soberly cheerful temper, had no fears for 
the future. “ Oh, yes, I’ve got to live pretty close,” he said 
in answer to a question from his ancient friend and employer, 
Mr. Marsh; “but that’s not worrying me any. If I can’t 

272 


CONTAINS BUSINESS AND PLEASURE 273 


make out at the law, I can always get a job chopping wood, 
I guess.” 

He had parted from the old man on the best of terms, and 
with hearty good wishes on both sides. Mr. Marsh never 
held out any inducements for Burke to remain, or expressed 
any particular liking for him, or satisfaction with his work, 
or, to sum up, treated him otherwise than with an impartial 
respect and justice; for all that, he took in his way an in¬ 
terest in Burke’s fortunes, showing it toward the close of their 
association in a dozen rough yet kindly speeches and acts. 
He never saw the young fellow on the street without stop¬ 
ping to ask how he was getting on, his old eyes twinkling a 
little, in response, perhaps, to some expression on Nat’s own 
face — for they had grown to know each other very well — 
as the latter gravely informed him that he was not busy at 
the moment. The boys at the store, when they came around 
to see the new attorney — which they did quite often in the 
beginning, out of mingled curiosity and friendliness — re¬ 
ported that Mr. Marsh was actually almost enthusiastic in 
recommending Burke to the customers who might be need¬ 
ing a lawyer’s services. They missed Nathan a good deal, 
they said — was he making as much at law as he had at 
bookkeeping for Marsh? “Not yet,” Nat told them with 
a grin. Kellar had Nat’s place now — the king is dead, 
long live the king! — so funny, they all kept calling Kellar, 
“Nat,” just out of habit, you know. Mr. Ducey had won 
five hundred dollars in the Alexandria Lottery — had Burke 
heard ? And they wouldn’t wonder if Mr. Marsh was going 
to draw out of the business before long and leave it all to 
Ducey, sure enough. “You don’t say so!” ejaculated Na¬ 
than, in astonishment; “oh, that must be a mistake. Why 
the place can’t go on — that is, you can’t imagine its going 
on without Marsh!” 

“Well, that’s what I’ve been hearing steady — don’t 
know how true it is,” said his informant; “of course you can’t 
tell anything from the way old George acts himself. He’s 
awfully close-mouthed when he wants to be. But he’s 
getting pretty old, Nat. Every day of seventy-five I guess. 
I notice he ain’t near as spry this last year; he kind of drags 
his feet a little when he walks; sometimes he don’t get down 
to the store till way late in the morning. He’s beginning 


274 


NATHAN BURKE 


to break up, I wouldn’t wonder; people notice it, you 
know.” 

“/ haven’t noticed it,” said Burke, stoutly. He disliked 
to think of the sturdy old man in decay; Marsh had been 
Nat’s first patron; it would have been difficult to define 
the sentiment the young man felt for him. And it was, be¬ 
sides, impossible to figure this ancient hero of a hundred 
hard-fought commercial battles in retirement. What would 
he do with himself, Burke mused. How would he put in 
the long day? I don’t believe George Marsh ever read a 
book in his life, or played a game, or went to see a friend except 
on some business errand. Would he smoke a pipe in the 
chimney-corner, and wander out for a walk once in a while, 
and grow querulous and complaining about draughts and 
meals and medicine, and presently rust away like an old 
disused weapon — Nathan hastily averted his mind. 

In spite of the reports, however, there seemed to be no 
present danger of all this happening. Old George appeared 
at his place of business every day as heretofore; and it was 
he who sent Nathan his first client. This case — which, 
alas, Mr. Burke lost!—was that of a market-gardener 
who had shipped twenty-one barrels of apples to somewhere 
by the canal; and they had all got frozen and spoiled, owing, 
the farmer thought, and his lawyer contended, to inadequate 
provision for their shelter on the road. Jim Sharpless used 
to represent, with impressive gestures and a deep rolling voice, 
the dramatic scene in the court-room when counsel for the 
plaintiff arose to make his plea — “ This gifted young man’s 
touching description of the sufferings of the unfortunate 
apples, shivering and huddled together beneath the wretched 
shanty into which an inhuman warehouse-keeper had thrust 
them in the dead of winter without fire or light, moved the 
hardest heart to pity and sympathy. And when he reached 
his peroration, which for grace of style, originality of thought, 
and fervid eloquence surpasses none ever before heard at 
our bar, there was not one eye open in the court-room!” 

The unlucky outcome, however, occasioned poor Jim, 
who was very generous, affectionate, and enthusiastic about 
his friend, much deeper chagrin than was felt by counsel for 
the plaintiff himself. “Why, I thought you were going to 
win, Nat; I was dead certain you were going to win, or I 


CONTAINS BUSINESS AND PLEASURE 275 


never would have made fun that way — you don’t mind, 
do you, old fellow?” he said earnestly; “damn it, you ought 
to have won. I never saw such a set of dunderheaded 
fools as that jury!” 

“Why, they were very respectable men and ordinarily 
intelligent, I thought,” said Burke, philosophically; “I’m 
not expecting to win every time. You’ve got to take the 
bad with the good, and it evens up in the end, I guess.” 
And in support of this theory it must be noted that, although 
worsted in his suit, Mr. Burke was, on the whole, favorably 
received in the court-room, and made so good an impression 
that some one shortly after sought him out and retained him 
for a case involving a lease and subrental, which Burke 
gained this time. One or two of Governor Gwynne’s care¬ 
fully cultivated rustic or backwoods patrons discovered him; 
he got a payment of an order for groceries — from a man who 
had a suit against the city for a broken leg — which would 
have kept him, as he was of rather frugal and temperate dis¬ 
position, for the rest of his natural life ; and got it dis¬ 
counted, so to speak, by his landlord, the shoemaker, who 
happened to have some spare cash. “ I’m beginning the tradi¬ 
tional way,” said Burke, retailing this financial transaction to 
his friends; “I heard Governor GWynne telling somebody once 
that his first fee was three bushels of potatoes.” 

“Ho, they used to get that sort of stuff in payment for 
subscriptions at the Journal office all the time,” said Jim; 
“bags of corn-meal and duck and quail and deer in season, 
hams and shoulders — tallow candles — everything you can 
think of, even patchwork counterpanes. People don’t do 
that way so much nowadays, though. The journalistic pro¬ 
fession,” said Jim, pompously, “is looking up since our well¬ 
born, well-educated, and talented youth have begun to enter 
it. Although we cannot but deplore Mr. S—’s opinions, 
we must at least allow him, etc. etc.” He laughed as he 
turned to his writing; he had quoted the last words from a 
review which had appeared in the Gazette not long before. 

There had been, in fact, an extraordinary reversal of public 
opinion regarding Jim the last year or so. Nothing succeeds 
like success; and the young fellow’s readiness of pen, his 
satirical and humorous insight, his quick, comprehensive 
vision of men and affairs, had lately begun to make him a 


276 


NATHAN BURKE 


figure of some prominence in our small literary world. We 
took these things with very great seriousness in those days. 
During the legislative sessions Sharpless was correspondent 
for half-a-dozen papers elsewhere in the State; he had got 
three articles accepted by the American Review , “a Whig 
Journal devoted to Politics and Literature/’ which was pub¬ 
lished monthly in New York with a steel-engraving of some 
celebrity for a frontispiece; you may see any number of 
J. S.’s contributions within the pages of that long dead and 
forgotten magazine during the decade of ’40-’50. Jim’s 
essays were on literary subjects, and one, at least, of his 
readers thought them by far the most pointed, scholarly, 
and withal humane that the American Review ever pub¬ 
lished. And that winter there was brought out (by Messrs. 
Leavitt, Throw & Co., of 33 Ann Street, New York, great 
purveyors of gift-books, annuals, and so on, in those simple 
old days) a little volume of “Translations from Beranger, 
by J. S.,” charmingly gotten up with a white cover embossed 
with blue and pink and silver wreaths, ribbons, scrolls, 
flambeaux, and what-not in the most refined and fashionable 
taste; it had its steel-engraving, too, of “Flora” or “Julia” 
or “Zuleika” or some such romantic, simpering female 
facing the title-page — she had nothing whatever to do with 
Beranger; but what of that? No book of this nature would 
have been complete without her, with her grin and her 
languishing eyes, and her alarmingly low-cut bodice. The 
book-sellers assured one that this concoction was “just the 
thing for a gift to a young lady, or for the parlor-table.” One 
of these astute gentlemen advertised it in a review as by our 
gifted fellow-townsman! It sold like sixty, like hot cakes, 
like wildfire! People who had never read a line of poetry 
in their lives, nor heard of Beranger, nor understood a word 
of the French language, so that they were wholly incapable 
of appreciating the incomparable deftness of Jim’s English, 
bought it by the dozens. In a short while Mr. James Sharp¬ 
less, very much to his own amusement, found himself sud¬ 
denly rehabilitated both in pocket and in the estimate of 
society. Who shall expound these mysteries ? Jim, who 
up till now had been a reprehensible vagabond, foraging in 
discreditable places, discoursing unmentionable heresies, 
knowing impossible people, living anyhow and everyhow, 


CONTAINS BUSINESS AND PLEASURE 277 


shunned by all respectability like the plague — Jim was now 
become, without altering a single one of his habits or opinions, 
an erratic, brilliant, companionable fellow, a dreadful Bohe¬ 
mian, but so original and so talented ! Female society 
smiled on him ! He was admitted in the wake of his little 
gilt book to the front-parlors of the elect. He had to buy 
a white waistcoat and make other additions to his Robert- 
Macaire wardrobe. The young ladies who owned “Trans¬ 
lations from Beranger by J. S.” used to ask him prettily 
to write his name in their copies; they received him in quite 
a flutter and paraded Mr. Sharpless, the author, before 
strangers and visitors; and were perfectly sure that he was 
a wild, cynical, irreligious and — ahem! — yes, let us say 
it — immoral person whom it was dangerous and therefore 
highly desirable to know. 

“I’m quite devilish and popular,” Jim would say with his 
kind satire; “girls I’ve known all my life and used to play 
with when we were children have all at once discovered that 
I still exist — after having cut me dead for years, under 
•their mothers’ orders, I suppose. But all the mothers re¬ 
member me now. It’s the women that do it, after all, Nat. 
Men know, you know, Jack Yardaman knows, that I’m just 
as I’ve always been. A little success that, by heavens, I’ve 
worked hard for and deserved, doesn’t make any different or 
better man of me. I still stick to my monstrous beliefs, 
and if I don’t thrust them down people’s throats, why, I 
never have. I humbly trust that, creedless as I am, I live 
decently and cleanly and like a man. But the women can’t 
believe that, and upon my soul, they don’t want to believe 
it! You’ll never be a social success, Nat; you’ve got such 
a damning reputation for steadiness and respectability. If 
you’d only contrive to spread abroad a rumor of your terrible 
immoralities and seductions, you’d have a whole army of 
’em after you to reform you.” 

“I shouldn’t want a whole army — one would do me,” 
Burke said with a laugh. “Your mother is very proud of 
you, Jim; she goes around with the dearest little I-told-you- 
so air. Does your father ever —?” 

“No, not a word,” said Jim. He looked at his friend with 
a kind of regretful pride in his face. “The old man is always 
consistent, or tries to be, and what’s more, he’s right this 


278 


NATHAN BURKE 


time, Nathan. If I were President Sharpless in the White 
House and still believed as I do, Jonathan Edwards Sharp* 
less would still refuse to speak to me, or allow me under 
his roof. He’d think he’d betrayed his Master, if he coun¬ 
tenanced me. I tell you, Nat, I’m proud of him. Who 
was that fellow that said every man has his price? If he 
could have known my father, he’d have changed his mind, 
I think.” 

If he could have known the son, he would have changed his 
mind, Burke thought. Prosperity is so much harder a test 
than adversity that, if Jim’s head had been ever so little 
turned by all the notice and flattery he got, it would not have 
been at all surprising. But he remained unspoiled by the 
one as by the other, gay, chivalrous, and kind, pleased with 
the sunshine as he had been indifferent to the rain. Varda- 
man could have had Jim to live with him in absolute safety 
now. “Most remarkable thing, I believe he’d increase my 
practice!” Jack observed with a false air of simplicity. He 
invited us to dine with him at his house which was presided 
over by his only sister, a lady some few years older than the 
doctor, and looking exactly like him in petticoats. It was 
a type, which, however passable in a man, was not suited 
to the accepted ideas of feminine attractiveness. Miss Clara 
Vardaman, whom I know to have been a most sweet and 
lovable woman, was never known to have received a mo¬ 
ment’s attention from any male human being. She was 
rather tall, thin, and flat, always exquisitely neat, with a 
gold watch and chain around her neck, a cluster of curls in 
front of her ears on either cheek, very beautiful small hands 
and feet, of which she was harmlessly vain, I think, and a 
manner of chilling reserve, due, I have since felt convinced, 
to extreme and painful shyness. I have heard my wife say 
that if ever the Lord cut out and fashioned a woman to be 
an old maid, it was Clara Vardaman. As young as she 
was at this time — not more than thirty-four or thirty-five 
— she already owned a parrot and a poodle! She was one 
of the most immaculate housekeepers that ever stepped in 
shoe-leather; she was past mistress of the womanly arts 
of cooking and sewing; she worshipped the doctor as a su¬ 
perior being, measured all other men up to him, and if any¬ 
one mentioned So-and-So as being & good husband or a 


CONTAINS BUSINESS AND PLEASURE 279 


promising young man, never failed to remark with surprise: 
“ Why, he’s not at all like Jack!” Under her anxious super¬ 
vision the dinner to which Dr. Vardaman invited that 
rising young member of the bar, Mr. Nathan Burke, and 
that eminent man of letters, Mr. James Sharpless, in com¬ 
pany with a few other intimate friends, was conducted with 
a magnificence of things to eat and things to drink and rich 
old plate and china, the like of which Mr. Burke, who had 
recently been making his first ventures in society, had never 
beheld before. I dare say Miss Vardaman had been busy 
for days with the boned turkey, the chicken salad, the cus¬ 
tards and jellies, and the dozen or so other sweets and relishes 
which crowded the table. She sat at its head behind the 
great old silver coffee-urn, quite silent in her green silk dress, 
with her point-lace collar, with the handsome garnet neck¬ 
lace that had come to her from her mother, and the odd old 
crown-set diamonds on her delicate fingers, thankfully 
watching everybody eat, and frowning dreadfully when the 
servant dropped a fork, and nervously smiling at her brother’s 
jokes, which she could not understand, but which she was 
loyally certain must be very funny. She did not laugh at 
Jim’s, which equally she did not understand — but she had 
a secret dread that they might be evil-minded. 

“You are the Mr. Burke that Judge Swan was talking 
about the other day, aren’t you?” she said timidly to her 
right-hand neighbor; “he said you handled the — the case, 
a case about something, I — I don’t quite remember what, 
Mr. Burke — but he said you handled it so well.” 

“Judge Swan has always been very kind to me,” said the 
gentleman. 

“Do you play chess, Mr. Burke? No? Why, how odd ! 
I thought you were so clever. Jack plays chess.” 

And this was the extent of the conversation. Perhaps 
Mr. Burke himself did not make much of an effort to sustain 
it; he had just caught a glance from Miss Mary Sharpless’s 
large and lovely gray eyes (across the pyramidal, sparkling, 
cut-glass-and-silver castor in the middle of the table) that 
had started a suffocating commotion under his white shirt- 
front and crisp satin neck-scarf. 

“I think it’s perfectly wonderful your being able to speak 
French, Mr. Sharpless,” said Miss Clara. “Jack speaks 


280 


NATHAN BURKE 


French — he’s been there, you know. But Jack can do 
everything. French is very hard — all those awful verbs. 
It takes a very bright person, I’m sure. I don’t see how 
you ever learned.” 

“Why, I learned of a drunken old fiddler named Jean- 
Baptiste Leroux, that said he had been a soldier in Napo¬ 
leon’s army, and had dreadful tales of Jena and Waterloo,” 
Jim told her. “He used to come around to the coffee-houses 
and play for pennies, and I got to know him quite well.” 
Miss Vardaman colored, and began hastily to talk about the 
weather, in evident fear lest Jim might embark upon some 
indiscreet details — Frenchmen, coffee-houses — Mercy! It 
was Burke’s privilege to take Miss Sharpless home that even¬ 
ing — and Jim, with a truly fraternal inability to perceive 
that two were company and three none, walked with them all 
the way! 

It will be seen that Mr. Nat had now, by imperceptible 
degrees and entirely unknown to himself, entered what 
Mr. Jeames de la Pluche (writing in an English magazine, 
I think, at about this time) styled the “hupper sukkles.” 
The young man who was studying law in however in¬ 
formal a fashion — in Governor Gwynne’s office had a cer¬ 
tain social advantage over Mr. Marsh’s head-bookkeeper; 
and imagination staggers at contemplating the gulf that 
separated that same young man, admitted to the bar, and 
moderately successful, from Mr. Ducey’s chore-boy ! It was 
not ten years yet, but nobody remembered that creditable 
yet not at all picturesque passage in Burke’s career. This 
subtle alteration, when it was finally forced upon Nat’s 
notice, moved him, as Sharpless was moved in circumstances 
not altogether dissimilar, to hearty mirth. Like Jim, he 
was conscious of no change in himself, unless it might be 
the change incident to advancing years and experience; 
failings and ambitions, good and evil, weak and strong, the 
man Nathan Burke was the boy Nathan Burke. What or 
who was accountable for the new atmosphere in which he 
moved? Why, again, in one word, the ladies! “It’s the 
women that do it, after all,” Jim had said of his own case. 
Boy and man, Nathan had never lacked friends and society 
among his own sex, nor been made aware of any barrier of 


CONTAINS BUSINESS AND PLEASURE 281 


caste; it is the wives and mothers who adjust the scale, 
who judge, decide, govern, and protect in all social matters. 
Their office seems to be somewhere between guardian angel 
and private detective; they tell us whom we shall bow to 
on the street, and whom we may invite to dinner; we dress, 
dance, make calls, go to the theatre, frequent church-fairs 
and card-parties, marry and give in marriage by their for¬ 
mula — it is conceivable that men, left to themselves, would 
never perform any of these duties at all! One cannot sup¬ 
pose that all the matrons of our society assembled in caucus, 
and took a rising vote as to Mr. Burke’s eligibility to their 
own and their daughters’ acquaintance; there would be a 
sort of crude male directness about such a proceeding. No, 
the thing must have been accomplished by some potent 
agency of which man knows nothing, working in secret. 
Of a sudden Nat discovered that he was taking off his hat 
a great many more times upon his daily walks abroad than 
he ever had before; that Miss Sharpless was not the sole 
young lady who stopped and chatted with him about the 
weather; that it might be desirable to own an evening-coat 
and pumps; and, for a concluding touch, Miss Frances Blake, 
who had been away a whole year in New York City at 
Ma<jiahie Chegaray’s fashionable boarding-school, and re¬ 
turned altogether grown up and dressed up, called him “Mr. 
Burke” with a bright blush over her fresh little face — which 
was still rather round and infantine, notwithstanding her 
seventeen years — and gave him her hand in a very formal 
style when they met. He told Jim Sharpless about it with 
a laugh. 

“She was with Mrs. Ducey and George in the carriage. 
Francie, all over ribbons with a straw bonnet full of flowers, 
like a dear little wren dressed out in bird o’ Paradise plumes. 
She looks prettier in plain clothes, I think, but probably 
her aunt won’t have her any other way. Mrs. Ducey herself 
was very brilliant, ten times the handsomer woman of the 
two even at her age, with something very sweet, proud, and 
maternal in the way she tried to put Francie forward and keep 
herself in the background. They’ve always treated Francie 
just like their own child, you know. But Jim, you ought 
to have seen George Ducey — he went on to New York 
with his mother, you know, when they brought Francie 


282 


NATHAN BURKE 


back — the most tremendous swell in one of those new plaid 
velvet waistcoats, the very latest cut, and his boots varnished 
with that patent blacking-stuff they use now, so you could 
see your face in ’em, ‘ through a glass darkly ’ like a rosewood 
piano-case. And lemon-colored kid gloves so tight he had 
to hold his fingers spread out — he couldn’t have shaken 
hands with me even if he’d wanted to. They saw me com¬ 
ing out of Gwynne’s office — otherwise I don’t know whether 
George could have been prevailed upon to recognize me,” 
said Nat, laughing; “only he’d probably mind his mother.” 

“Yes, and there aren’t any affectations about Mrs. Ducey,” 
Jim said; “she’s a fine woman. If you were a chimney¬ 
sweep, she’d stop and speak to you before all the world, if she 
liked you — yes, and ask you to her house and give you the 
best room in it in defiance of what people might say. I 
believe she’s always rather championed me. I know she 
used to make a point of being kind to me. It seems incredible 
that she should be the mother of that infernal puppy George.” 

Dr. Vardaman, sitting by, smoking one of the segars to 
which he insisted on treating us — of the very best variety, 
for Jack had certain.fastidious tastes and spent a good deal 
of money that way — looked up quizzically. 

“Why, Jim,” he said, “I see a kind of crooked likeness 
between them. You might define it by saying that Mrs. 
Ducey’s worst qualities are George’s best!” 

“There’s a good strong dash of Ducey, too, I think,” 
growled Jim; “ or of that other fellow — what did you say 
his name was, Nat ? Old Marsh’s brother that he told you 
about. I mean the one that pretended to be a disinherited 
earl, and got through all the money he could lay hands on — 
George’s grandfather, wasn’t he ? I notice a kind of family 
likeness there, don’t you ? Lord, what a jackass the creature 
is!” said Jim, with singular fury; “the idea of that nice, 
sweet, sensible, little Fran— Miss Blake being obliged to 
go around with him!” 

“She won’t be obliged to for long,” Vardaman said with a 
laugh; “calm yourself. Miss Blake is pretty well liked by 
the men, I understand.” 

“Oh” said Sharpless, a little blankly; and he sat silent for 
a while, puffing furious clouds of smoke. 

“How are your medical studies progressing, John?” 


/ 


CONTAINS BUSINESS AND PLEASURE 283 


Nathan asked at last; and all three young men burst out 
laughing. This simple question had been a by-word with 
them for the last two years or so. It gave them an idiotic 
pleasure to support the fiction of the doctor being George 
Ducey’s pupil; they laid bets as to how much longer George 
would continue in the medical profession, and which he would 
take up next: law, arms, or Hivinity? Yardaman displayed 
a patience with him which plight have confirmed us in our 
belief — had we needed to fee confirmed — in Jack’s unfail¬ 
ing generosity of spirit and kind heart. In six months 
George was directing the doctor how to run his office, cure 
his patients, collect his bills, invest his money. And before 
long we heard that he was ripe for practice, but Jack Varda- 
man’s envy and jealousy held him back!” “Oh, that’s 
nothing, that sort of talk,” said the doctor to us in private, 
after some amiable person had brought him this report; “it’s 
what George may do that I’m afraid of. Supposing some¬ 
body let him undertake a case of pneumonia or typhus ! I tell 
you, fellows, the very devil’s in it — he’s a menace to the 
community! ” But Burke thought the hard, often unpaid, and 
thankless duties of a physician would not be enough to George’s 
liking for the doctor to dread that risk. “Fancy George 
hopping out of bed in the middle of a freezing winter night 
to go to a case of small-pox!” he said; “or leaving his nice 
hot dinner to dose somebody’s baby for the croup. It’s 
unimaginable.” 

It was so natural for a man of Jim Sharpless’s character to 
dislike George Ducey that I am sure it never occurred to 
either of his friends that there might be some other feeling 
equally strong underlying his dislike. Burke was pretty 
well occupied with his own affairs, business and sentiment 
both, at this time; and, as months went on, and in spite of 
persistent rumors, Mary and the doctor never seemed to 
get any farther than a comfortable friendship, Nat’s hopes 
revived. Probably they had never suffered any serious set¬ 
back, for love being on the whole a selfish growth, it is diffi¬ 
cult to kill out, except by some such withering frost as mar¬ 
riage with somebody else — which was what Jack Vardaman 
had had to endure. And, at any rate, even the most diffident 
and self-distrustful of men — which Burke was not — could 
hardly have interpreted otherwise than as encouragement 


284 


NATHAN BURKE 


the gentle words and glances he got from Miss Sharpless. 
She was so sweet, so sympathetic, so deeply interested in his 
work and plans, so unaffectedly glad to see him, so mindful 
of his tastes, even to the point of wearing frocks he had 
admired and playing his favorite selection on the pianoforte, 
which was a good, loud, thundering piece entitled “The 
Battle of Prague,” that made the windows rattle and sent 
agreeable tremors up and down the spine — I do not see what 
he could have gathered from all this unless encouragement. 
Once she called him “Nathan,” by accident, of course, and 
apologized for it in a confusion that melted him into an 
alarming state of tenderness. “I always think of you that 
way — I — I can’t help it, you know,” said Mary — and 
then Mrs. Sharpless came in with her crocheting and uncon¬ 
sciously put a stop to the very interesting avowal Mr. Burke 
was about to make. 

He was a little relieved to think he had been so headed off, 
as he walked back to Mrs. Slaney’s that night. What busi¬ 
ness had he to ask any woman to marry him, or to wait 
for him until he had enough to marry on ? It would be doing 
her a rank injustice if she accepted him — and giving her 
needless distress if she refused. Jack Vardaman now — but 
Jack hadn’t the faintest idea of asking Mary or anybody else, 
Nat was confident; and had no qualms even when, calling at 
the house, he found the doctor seated cosily on the frail little 
shabby parlor-sofa which Mrs. Sharpless had patched up in 
a dozen places, listening to Lord knows what symphony, 
nocturne, berceuse, or other species of music in which Varda¬ 
man had a discriminating and cultivated taste. “Don’t 
you want ‘The Battle of Prague’ now, Mr. Burke?” says 
Mary, the moment it is finished, directing her clear glance 
upon him almost with the effect of a caress. “Oh, yes, let’s 
have ‘The Battle of Prague,’ by all means,” says the doctor, 
heartily. And presently the sofa is quivering under them 
to the chords of that martial composition, and Mrs. Sharp¬ 
less casting rather apprehensive glances in its direction. 
Both gentlemen applaud the finale to the echo, and Mary 
asks Mr. Burke what he will have next ? For somehow it 
seems to Nat that she is always kindest and sweetest to him 
when Jack Vardaman is by ! 


CHAPTER XXI 

In which Mr. Burke casts his First Vote 

Whether the points at issue in the Presidential campaign 
of 1844 were more vital to the nation’s health, or were more 
bitterly and vigorously contested, or whether the event ac¬ 
quired importance and dignity in his eyes from the operation 
recorded in the heading of this chapter, or from whatever 
cause, Burke has always retained a more vivid memory of 
that political struggle than of any other, even the much dead¬ 
lier and more decisive ones that succeeded it. My friends, 
it’s a fine thing to be young and cast your first vote. How 
much depends on that ballot! With what a fresh and hon¬ 
est patriotism and zealous belief is it slipped into the box ! 
How eloquently, how earnestly, how solemnly were the young 
voters of the country who were about to perform this feat 
exhorted and addressed from the platform, the pulpit, the 
Court-house steps, the State-house yard, the street-corners, 
the editorial columns of the Ohio Statesman (Dem.), the 
State Journal (Whig), the dozen-and-one partisan sheets 
which used to spring up about the first of August and flourish 
until after the first Friday in November, when they all incon¬ 
tinently withered down like Jonah’s gourd ! I came upon 
one of them by accident the other day; maybe it had been 
guaranteeing some parcel against the moth in a corner of the 
garret; it was yellowed with time and dust; its old print, 
its clumsy old wood-cuts were yellowed — and Good Lord, 
what a lifeless thing it was with its vapid boasting, its lies, 
its toothless sarcasms, its insults that can’t insult anybody 
any more, its jokes that will never again raise a laugh this 
side of Styx! Once it must have come off the presses damp, 
and been hawked about the streets, and eagerly bought and 
read and wrangled over — can you fancy it ? I remember 
the man who edited it — I who speak to you — and he was 

285 


286 


NATHAN BURKE 


a good fellow in spite of the terrific blows he gave and took; 
now he and his paper and the men he assailed are one dust; 
and the principles they supported, and the war they waged, 
and the rest of their deeds, are they not all written in chron¬ 
icles where anybody can read them and nobody does ? Yet 
a little while, and you and I shall have joined them; and other 
battles shall go on over our heads, and other voters shall 
be shouted at and encouraged and blarneyed, and we shall 
rest well in our secure and comfortable oblivion. 

Mr. Burke, who had little time to spare from the business 
of making his living, and had arrived at a hearty contempt 
for certain political methods and their exponents, and who, 
moreover, had made up his youthful mind early in the game 
and resolved to vote for Clay and Frelinghuysen when the 
Whig Convention in Baltimore announced those gentlemen 
as its choice of candidates, about the beginning of May, 
presently found himself somewhat in the position of the 
innocent bystander who is always getting into trouble during 
a riot. For all his obstinacy and indifference he could not 
escape the contagion of excitement. Were we more in ear¬ 
nest in those days, or was it only that we had less of public 
interest to occupy our minds? We looked to a change of 
administration as we might have to the millennium. Dur¬ 
ing a Presidential campaign, every other kind of business 
came almost to an absolute stand; at this distance of time 
it seems to me we spent the days in mass-meetings and the 
nights in torch-light parades. The store windows were 
crowded with flags, portraits, “emblems.” The Whigs 
were “Coons,” the Democrats “Polk-stalks,” “Polk-berries,” 
“Polk —” never mind what! These elegant pages shall not 
be defaced with all the names we bestowed on one another. 

Amongst Nat’s acquaintance there was a pretty fair divi¬ 
sion between Clay men and Polk men, old Mr. Marsh be¬ 
longing to the first party, Sharpless and Jack Vardaman to 
the last-named. Oddly enough, these younger men did not 
seem to take the political situation so seriously as old George, 
who, having seen certainly a half-score of campaigns, ought 
to have been, one would think, tolerably well seasoned to them 
by this time. But his interest was almost boyishly vehe¬ 
ment; he stopped people on the street, he held forth in the 
Erin-go-Bragh; putting, as is frequently the case, a great 


MR.. BURKE CASTS HIS FIRST VOTE 287 


deal of energy into expounding and defending the doctrines 
of his party to men who, like Burke, believed as he did, and 
did not need to be argued over. Perhaps the old man 
wearied of his deferential audience at the store; he hardly 
took the pains to pretend an interest in Ducey’s opinions. 
The clerks reported that he was daily growing more crabbed 
and exacting — “and grumpy — you never saw the beat 
of him!” one boy told Nathan; “he’ll sit for hours without 
saying a word. He’s asleep part of the time over his old 
paper, and always wakes up mad as a hornet and glares 
around to see if anybody’s noticed him. There ain’t so 
many people coming in to see him as there used to was, 
y’know, Nat. It’s sort of dull in the store.” 

“Campaign year, you know,” Burke suggested. But the 
other shook his head. “’Tain’t that,” he said wisely. 
“Marsh is getting pretty old, and, by jingo, there ain’t any¬ 
body left to come in. They’ve been dying off lately — old 
So-and-So, you know, and Such-a-One —” he named them 
— “dying off like flies. Pretty soon George’ll be the only 
one left.” 

Nathan was relieved to find that, notwithstanding these 
gloomy tidings, old George always seemed cheerful, alert, 
and sprightly enough when they met; age had not withered 
him so far, Burke said to himself, and used to listen interest¬ 
edly to his ancient chief’s exposition of the questions of the 
day, even if his views were not especially illuminating or 
original. 

“Now who’s James K. Polk?” was Mr. Marsh’s favorite 
expression of contempt and satire; “never heard of him 
before. What’s James K. Polk ever done? By all accounts 
nothing but keep his head shut. A wooden man could do 
that!” — and so on, and so on; thus old George, stopping 
Burke on the corner where they have both lingered on the 
skirts of the crowd to listen to some gentleman of empurpled 
countenance and boundless lung capacity discuss the above 
point. They can hear the gathering cheer for the “Sage 
of Ashland” as they go on down the street'. Everybody 
was the Somebody of Somewhere during this campaign — 
except Mr. Polk himself, who was the Nobody of Nowhere. 
The contest was close and there was plenty of cheering for 
both candidates. Nat used to hear it as he sat at the decent 



288 


NATHAN BURKE 


and dignified desk which had replaced the pine table in his 
quarters above stairs over the shoemaker’s, with the windows 
open and the summer breeze ruffling his papers. I can hear 
it now; forty years after I can hear the hurrahing and the 
bands tooting bravely; . . . “the country’s risin’ for Harry 
Clay and Frelinghuysen!” and I can see young Nat Burke, 
who will vote this fall, at his labors. 

We did not see much of Sharpless these days; he was 
forever dashing about from one political hive to another in 
all parts of the State, and meeting many of the great ones of 
this earth. He wrote letters to his paper; you could recog¬ 
nize Jim’s bright ridicule, his good-tempered irony, his plain 
man’s logic. In all the crew of scribblers, I think he was the 
only one who wrote like a gentleman, and argued, denounced, 
or made fun with equal spirit and dignity. The shrieking 
demands of his fellow-Democrats to annex Texas, to settle 
the Oregon boundary at 54° 40', or wade in blood, found no 
echo in Jim’s sane and just and intelligent commentary ; 
in fact, many would have thought the young fellow did not 
always regard these subjects with the gravity they deserved, 
treating, for instance, the “fifty-four-forty or fight” slogan 
of his party with ineradicable levity. 

“It’s right and proper to have convictions,” he used to say 
solemnly; “but I can’t get into any sweat over the Oregon 
boundary. It’s too far away !” 

All this while, let it be observed, there was a third party 
in the field, and creating some commotion; namely, that same 
devoted band of martyrs or fanatics, which you choose, who 
had figured forlornly in the Harrison-Van Buren campaign, 
and wore the title of Abolitionists. Now they appeared as 
the Liberty Party, with a substantial increase of following, 
and under the leadership, as before, of Mr. Birney, who this 
time had not refused the nomination ; twice on the Lupercal 
had they offered him a kingly crown, which he finally ac¬ 
cepted—with, as he knew and everybody else knew, no more 
chance of winning at the polls than if he had been the Great 
Cham of Tartary. Yet the party had undoubtedly gained 
ground; there was some faint talk about the “balance of 
power”; I think both Whigs and Democrats, if they did not ex¬ 
actly court the Liberty Party, at least behaved with one eye 
to its opinions. And it was very generally believed after the 


MR. BURKE CASTS HIS FIRST VOTE 289 


election that many Abolitionists had actually voted with the 
Whigs, whose sentiments more nearly agreed with their own. 
They had adopted a spirited set of resolutions, full of brave 
and outspoken truths, which either a Whig or a Democrat 
would have been put to his trumps to answer. The fact 
was, nobody did answer them; in some places they were 
laughed at, in some sympathized with, in some pelted with 
rotten eggs. All these varieties of treatment were accorded 
them in our State — in spite of a pretty strong and steadily 
growing anti-slavery feeling — and it fell to Burke’s lot to 
witness one reception of an Abolitionist speaker — even to 
take part in it. 

“Father will go around and speechify on this slavery busi¬ 
ness,” Jim Sharpless told his friend with an anxious face; 
“ he did at the last election, you know, and begged for ’em, 
and wrote and preached and worked night and day—” 

“I remember him coming into Mr. Marsh’s office with a 
committee, after a subscription,” Nat said. He described 
the meeting, and Jim listened with a half-smile, half-frown. 

“Think of father doing that, Nat,” he said, looking at the 
other with a flush on his lean cheeks; “nobody knows what 
it cost him. He’s — he’s a proud man, a high-tempered 
man — he hates from his inmost soul to ask for money — 
don’t I know that? We’re just alike — but I couldn’t 
bend myself to do the things father does for duty’s sake — 
I’m no such man as he is,” said Jim, humbly. “He thinks 
it’s required of him by God and the church and the cause of 
Abolition to go out and suffer all kinds of rebuffs and humilia¬ 
tions and sneers — and, by heavens, yes, Nat, the old man’s 
run into actual bodily danger sometimes in these rough 
places where he’s been making speeches. I don’t know 
whether he knows it, but if he did, he’d go just the same 
and speak. He’s not afraid of anything on this earth.” 

“ Couldn’t your mother, or — or Miss Mary persuade him 
not to ? I should think he’d do anything for her — for them, 
I mean,” asked Burke. 

“ Mother or Mary ? Pooh ! Why, Nat, you know better 
than that. I’d like to see anybody stop Jonathan Sharpless 
when he thinks he’s doing his duty — or when he’s got his 
head set, it amounts to the same thing,” said his son with 
almost a laugh; “I tell you, though, some of these other old 



290 


NATHAN BURKE 


Abolition boys realize when there’re rocks ahead, and are 
entirely willing to crawfish out of trouble. I met old Elder 
Williams — you know him, don’t you, the one that has the 
soap-boiling and refinery concern down on Front Street, 
he’s a great light in the church and the Liberty Party — I 
say I saw him on the street the other day, and I naturally 
expected him to pass me by on the other side, as long as he 
hasn’t recognized me for years. But this time, didn’t he 
linger along with one eye on me and a sort of expression as if 
he’d speak if he was sure the Almighty wasn’t keeping tab 
on him! So I stopped — 1 haven’t any responsibilities, 
and I never heard of anything against Elder Williams,” said 
Jim, with great seriousness. “‘How do you do, Mr. Wil¬ 
liams?’ says I affably. ‘Hum — ha — how do you do, 
James ? I — hum — ha — I read your book with great in¬ 
terest — hum — ha — we haven’t seen much of you lately, 
James — hum—’ I might have told him he hadn’t 
looked,” said Jim, grinning; “but I didn’t. The fact is, 
Nathan, I was a good deal floored by this notice. It looked 
to me as if the old gentleman had something more particular 
to say, and didn’t quite know how to get himself started. 
I told him I had been out of town more or less all summer, 
going around from one political meeting to another. That 
seemed to help him along a little; he wanted to know if I 
thought — hum — the Whigs were going to carry the State? 
‘Why, Mr. Williams,’ said I, ‘it seems to me it’s a pretty 
close thing between Clay and Polk. You know I — ahem 
— I see all kinds of men, and I have to go into all kinds of 
places, and I notice that the — ahem — the betting is very 
heavy both ways. There’s a great deal of enthusiasm, and 
absolute confidence.’ I put this with rather an apologetic 
air — you don’t want to talk to a deacon about betting and 
all that you know — but elder Williams never turned a hair! 
Only looked interested and thoughtful and hum-ha’d several 
times, until, by jingo, Nat, I began to think he wanted to get 
a fifty or so down on Clay or Polk himself ! ‘ I may as well 

be plain, Mr. Williams,’ says I, wishing to change the sub¬ 
ject and lead him from temptation; ‘as far as I can see 
your party hasn’t the ghost of a show. I dare say you never 
had any solid expectation of success anyhow. At the last 
election Birney and Lemoyne polled seven thousand and odd 


MR. BURKE CASTS HIS FIRST VOTE 291 


votes, I understand; and this time there’ll be more — ten 
times as many — seven or eight thousand, I haven’t a doubt, 
right here in Ohio alone. So you might say that your views 
are receiving some endorsement. It’s not wholly discourag¬ 
ing.’ Now, Nat, if I’d said that to father, he would have 
raised up, looking like an ancient Hebrew prophet, and 
thundered out something about Truth is mighty and shall 
prevail, and the Blood of the Martyrs is the Seed of the 
Church, and so on. But Elder Williams is a practical old 
soap-boiler, and I could see he was a good deal put out over 
the whole business. He got quite confidential and complain¬ 
ing— knowing, of course, that he could talk to an outlaw 
like me without restraint. He said he was against slavery, 
of course, he believed any humane man would be against it; 
but he thought — hum — ha — the time was not ripe to 
throw it off. He was of opinion — ha — that there was 
little or no use in going around and rabidly denouncing so 
solidly established an institution; that it only provoked 
ill-feeling and, — er — in short, was a waste of time and — 
hum — money. He had not quite understood the aims and 
methods of the Liberty Party in the beginning, and doubted 
whether he would have — er — allied himself with them, 
if he had known what he was going into, in short. He had 
personally contributed to their campaign-fund, and — hum 

— he considered that money as much thrown away as water 
through a sieve. He had even been obliged to go with other 
members of his committee into very low parts of the city 
and county, full of rowdies and blacklegs, where he thought 
it was a needless risk to send a man of his age, and that he 
wouldn’t give a — a fig for all the converts made in those 
districts; any respectable man would rather have ’em against 
him than with him! ‘Now, for instance, James,’ he said 
(he was getting pretty well warmed up by this tune), ‘I 
am expected to go with — with your father, who is to speak, 
down to one of those resorts near the river — Harmony Hall, 
I think they call the place, probably you know all about it 

— next Tuesday night. They’ve promised us a constable 

— but I consider it a preposterous undertaking for both of 
us, even if it did any good, and it don’t. I have endeavored 
to dissuade your father, but he is quite set on it. I — I 
really don’t know whether I’ll be able to go — hum — ha — 


292 


NATHAN BURKE 


Mrs. Williams is not at all well, and I don’t like to leave her 

— and we — er — we’re expecting my brother’s wife with 
her children from Pittsburgh and — er — I — I’m very 
busy at the factory, so that I doubt if I can spare the time. 
I thought likely you didn’t know about this meeting, and 
while I wouldn’t like to take it on myself, I — um — I would 
suggest that you attend it, and use your — um — your 
influence with — um — those people, to keep order.’ 
Don’t laugh, Nat. The old fellow meant well,” Jim wound 
up; “and it’s only common sense for him to keep out of such 
a place.” 

On sober thought, one could not but agree with Elder 
Williams’s fight-and-run-away, or rather run-away-without- 
fighting policy. Harmony Hall was the chief ornament of 
that part of the city called “The Bottoms,” long since swept 
out and purified. It was a vile locality — we did not have 
the word slum then, but much as slum stands for, even it 
might scarcely have described The Bottoms. The prospect 
of poor Mr. Sharpless carrying his already hopeless crusade 
amongst that population of pickpockets, drabs, and despera¬ 
does — not a few of them black, or colored, by the way — 
where it was a common and facetious saying that for fifty 
cents you could hire a man to vote for Beelzebub and go to 
Hell to do it, too, for that matter — I say the idea of address¬ 
ing these worthies in the cause of Abolition would have been 
funny, if it had not been so disquieting. It was of a piece 
with the kind of noble futility, the baseless altruism which 
distinguished not alone Jim’s father, but many another 
enthusiast on the anti-slavery side. Did not the Saviour 
of mankind visit and dwell with publicans and sinners, they 
thought. And are we not all enjoined to carry the Gospel 
unto the heathen ? 

Jim recited his conversation with Elder Williams — whom 
he mimicked to admiration — with abundant dry and droll 
humor; yet he was seriously perturbed by his father’s plans. 
It should be explained, in justice to two tolerably decent 
young men, that neither of them was at all familiar with 
The Bottoms district — whatever Mr. Williams had hinted 

— Burke, indeed, having been there only once in his whole 
life, at the time he was hunting for Nance Darnell. Harmony 
Hall itself was a ramshackle tenement, whereof the upper 


MR. BURKE CASTS HIS FIRST VOTE 293 


story was let out as some kind of rooming-house, I think, 
and the entire first floor thrown into one big dance-hall. 
The Bottoms congregated and held festivities there by 
night under the domain of a wretched old ruffianly saloon 
and dive keeper, called White Hat Sam; — if he had an¬ 
other name, nobody ever heard it. The dances generally 
broke up in a wholesale row; somebody was forever being 
robbed, beaten, shot, or stabbed in Harmony Hall —- whence, 
I suppose, it had acquired its ironic title, bestowed with that 
extraordinary, half-malicious levity which, as a people, we 
sometimes display towards things sad and disgraceful enough 
in themselves. But, on Tuesday night, when, having elected 
to see the Reverend Sharpless (as he was most commonly 
styled) through this particular experience, the son and his 
friend arrived on the spot, it was, if not as quiet as might 
have been wished, still as quiet as most political gatherings 
of that date, according to Jim, who was thoroughly versed 
in them by this. “They aren’t exactly sewing-circles,” he 
said. The street was full of sinister-looking loungers, all 
the grog-shops were in full blast, and Harmony Hall itself 
showed a great illumination of smoking, stinking, dripping oil- 
lamps with battered tin reflectors, and some rags of red, 
white, and blue bunting strung here and there in decoration. 
Within there was a good-sized audience already collected 
and standing about, leaning against the walls, or sprawled 
on the steps of the speaker’s platform at the upper end of the 
room. The band was probably stationed there on ordinary 
occasions, for there was a piano going full-tilt, and a burly 
songster in a red waistcoat and collarless shirt was raucously 
discoursing campaign airs. Everybody smoked, chewed, 
spat, drank, talked at the top of his lungs, all at once, but 
the disorder was no worse than it might have been anywhere; 
and Sharpless and his companion were surprised and relieved. 
Nevertheless when a sallow, shifty-eyed youth in a grimy 
apron came up proffering liquor, they thought it the part of 
prudence to buy a drink apiece. “ When you’re in Rome — ” 
Jim whispered; “I shouldn’t wonder if we were being 
watched every minute. They’ve got their eyes peeled for 
all strangers, you know — and White Hat might gently drop 
us in the cistern if we didn’t buy his execrable stuff.” 

“Ain’t been here very recent, have yer?” inquired the pot- 


294 


NATHAN BURKE 


boy with a rather startling appropriateness, returning at the 
moment from another customer. He arranged the glasses 
on his slopped tray to make room for theirs. “ Thank ye, 
sir. Old place looks jest th’ same, don’t it?” he added with 
as open a smile as his features, which were not constructed 
by Nature for any such expression, could compass. 

“Just the same,” said Jim, smoothly. “And there’s my 
old friend Leroux at the piano!” The boy eyed us plainly 
puzzled; but indeed it was Leroux, whom Mr. Burke had 
never had the honor of meeting before, a withered, dirty, 
shaking, poor wretch, old as the hills, and about three-parts 
drunk; yet the crazy instrument responded with something 
like fire and precision under his begrimed, unsteady hands. 
He embraced Jim (in the French fashion on both cheeks 
to the huge delight of the bystanders) when the latter pre¬ 
sented himself. “Mon cher — mon enfant — est-ce bien toi 
que je tiens dans mes bras!” says old Leroux, weeping pro¬ 
fusely; and peered up at him a little bewildered with his 
bleary old eyes. “Vat it ees, your name, hein? I haf 
forgot— ah, cette vilaine memoire —/” 

“My name’s Jim,” said the other, warily. 

“Ah, oui, je me rappelle — ce cher Jeem — ” It is much to 
be doubted whether he did remember, however; but he in¬ 
sisted on their taking another drink out of the bottle and 
tumbler beside him on the piano; the Harmony Hallers 
looked on, wondering and amused. 

“Don’t they furnish chairs, sir ?” Burke inquired — by 
way of being sociable — of a gentleman who, with his shoulder 
propped against the wall near by, was diligently picking his 
teeth with a pen-knife. He wiped it on his coat-sleeve, 
snapped it shut, and thrust it into his breeches-pocket before 
answering, regarding them the while speculatively. 

“Chairs — hell!” he then observed negligently: “No — 
Sam don’t never have chairs any more. He ain’t made o’ 
money, ye know.” A remark which, although apparently 
irrelevant, was not without a certain ominous significance. 
They took a position close to the dais at the imminent risk of 
being deafened by the musical performance; and in no great 
while afterwards the speaker of the evening came in, unat¬ 
tended, with a little rather ironical cheering (one of us fan¬ 
cied) in his wake as he walked up to his place. Mr. Sharpless 


MR. BURKE CASTS HIS FIRST VOTE 295 


heard it unmoved; he was too used to public speaking to be 
flustered by any ordinary reception; he mounted the steps 
in a momentary hush and went over and began to arrange 
his notes on the squalid table under one of the lamps as calmly 
as if he had been in his own pulpit of a Sunday morning, with 
his flock decorously awaiting the Word of God. The present 
congregation surveyed him with a kind of jocose ferocity; 
their sense of humor was probably deeply tickled by the in¬ 
congruous spectacle of Mr. Sharpless’s long, lean, rigid black 
figure and Mosaic countenance in this Harmony Hall setting. 
They manifestly wanted to see what he was going to do; and 
when some wit loudly advised him from the floor to “Go it, 
Daddy Longlegs! Give the — hell!he was summarily and 
not too gently silenced by his neighbors. One of those 
most active in promoting quiet was a short, stout, thick¬ 
necked man with greasy gray hair under his old shabby head- 
gear. “White Hat Sam,” murmured Jim, nudging his 
friend; and this celebrity presently came up, and slouched 
heavily down on the step not far away; he must have been 
upwards of sixty years old, Burke observed with surprise. 

“If you will kindly come to order, my friends,” said Mr. 
Sharpless, coming forward with his papers in one hand, and 
fumbling for his eye-glasses with the other. He was not im¬ 
mediately heard, and repeated the words, raising his voice, 
without effect. “Order, if you please, gentlemen!” cried 
the divine again, peering at the crowd with his near-sighted 
eyes over his spectacles. White Hat Sam looked up at him, 
grinning obscenely. Still the meeting did come to order — 
after a fashion — in a moment or two; it seemed to Burke as 
if the moving spirit of all these demonstrations, whether to 
instigate riot or preserve peace, was the proprietor. They 
took their cue from him; yet he sat motionless, heavy, and 
inert as a Hindoo idol. And Mr. Sharpless began. 

The first part of his address — nobody ever heard the 
last — was, as I remember, a sort of history of Slavery in the 
United States, and would have been interesting enough to 
any other audience. It is very common at this day (said Mr. 
Sharpless) to speak of our revolutionary struggle as com¬ 
menced and carried forward by a union of Free and Slave 
colonies; but such is not the case. However slender and dubi- 


296 


NATHAN BURKE 


ous its legal basis, Slavery existed in each and all of the coh 
onies that united to declare and maintain their independence. 
. . . The spirit of liberty aroused and intensified by the 
protracted struggle against usurped and abused power in the 
mother country. . . . How, my friends, shall we complain 
of arbitrary and unlimited power exerted over us, while we 
exert a still more despotic and inexcusable power over a 
dependent and benighted race ? 

It was at about this point that the audience began to show 
unequivocal signs of restlessness; the pot-boy was circulat¬ 
ing like a comet; somebody in the middle of the hall wanted 
to know if the gentleman had made any remarks reflecting on 
Dorr of Rhode Island, 1 because Dorr of Rhode Island was — 
“Do you mean front-Dorr, or back-Dorr?” some other 
patron of Harmony Hall inquired; references to all kinds of 
doors flew thick and fast in a rising racket; and a wag stand¬ 
ing near proceeded to give a loud, clear, and brilliant imi¬ 
tation of a rooster crowing, being desirous apparently of 
adding his mite to the tumult, whether appropriately or 
not. It was a tremendous success ; in an instant the 
place roared with every sort of farm-yard sound: bark¬ 
ings, brayings, mooings, gruntings, and snortings, as of 
Circe’s herds. “Order, if you please, my friends — order — 
one moment—” cried Mr. Sharpless, startled and dropping 
some of his papers, a little confused. “Order, if you please, 
my friends, order!” repeated the ventriloquist,his neighbor, 
in an amazingly exact yet caricatured imitation. Mr. Sharp¬ 
less tried again to go on; he had lost his place. . . . “Hu¬ 
man brotherhood, my friends, is a cardinal principle of true 
Democracy as well as of pure Christianity—” “True 
Democracy as well as pure Christianity!” crackled his tor¬ 
mentor. “Keep quiet, Jim, you can’t do anything,” urged 
Burke, grasping his companion’s arm. They were being a 
good deal hustled and shoved about; yet there was nothing to 
arouse one so far; all this rough behavior was such as might 
have been met with in a roomful of uncommonly boisterous 
schoolboys, and merely conveyed to the orator in a suffi¬ 
ciently good-humored manner that The Bottoms had had 

1 The newspapers of the date are full of the affair of Governor Dorr 
of Rhode Island, and are freely recommended to those who have the 
patience to read about it; the editor had not. — M. S. W. 


MR. BURKE CASTS HIS FIRST VOTE 297 


enough of him. If Mr. Sharpless had taken the hint, if Jim 
had kept his temper, if there hadn’t been quite so much of 
White Hat Sam’s fire-water going the rounds — but to what 
end are all these speculations ? The succeeding events took 
place with a stunning suddenness; one moment it was a lot of 
noisy, jolly, blaspheming bullies, and the next a cage of 
wolves, a den of hyenas! ‘Burke, still holding his friend’s arm, 
had just been obliged to jerk his other elbow into the eye of 
an over-inquisitive gentleman who was feeling in his vest- 
pocket, when they saw a man, in a burst of Harmony Hall 
humor shy something at the speaker (who was vainly trying 
to continue), some small object, a rotten potato or tomato, 
perhaps. It struck the Reverend Mr. Sharpless on the 
cheek-bone, not hurting him at all, I think, but knocked off 
his glasses and shattered them, to the great delight of the 
joker and those nearest in the audience who witnessed this 
feat. Sharpless twisted out of his companion’s grip. 

“ You’ll strike an old man, will you, you —!” he gasped 
out in a fury, gritting his teeth on a dreadful curse; “take 
that,—you!” And struck him in the face and sent him 
reeling. Jim was not a very strong man, and he hit out with 
no science at all, but the attack took the other by surprise; 
he went down on the steps of the platform, and upon the in¬ 
stant Harmony Hall burst into its brutal rage. 

I suppose it is strange that we ever got out of the place alive 
and unharmed; but barring bruises and tom coats, we found 
ourselves whole in the end. Perhaps the very size and close¬ 
ness of the crowd and the imperfect light saved us; for only 
comparatively few, and those in the front ranks, could have 
seen what passed; and doubtless in the minds of many the 
fellow whom Jim had knocked down had not got a blow amiss. 
The Bottoms had very little sympathy to waste on the van¬ 
quished; the fight was the thing with them. We charged up 
the steps over the prostrate foe — whose nose was bleeding 
grandly — and got to Mr. Sharpless and each.got hold of one 
of his arms. “Gentlemen—” he protested, backing away; 
without his glasses he did not for a second recognize either 
of us; he wanted to go on with the speech. “ If you will allow 
me, gentlemen—!” 

“You’ve got to come away, father!” shouted Jim in his ear; 
“come along, I say. There’s a door over here —” Another 


298 


NATHAN BURKE 


missile hurtled from somewhere; it went over our heads and 
struck one of the lamps, putting it out in a fountain of broken 
glass. The singer, with admirable judgment and agility, 
dived down and crawled on all fours under the piano. “By —, 
boys, you better git th’ old man out o’ this! ^ he bawled dis¬ 
interestedly; and even in that wild moment, Burke saw, and 
remembered afterwards, how this kind-hearted ruffian 
reached out and dragged poor old Leroux after him into a 
corner of safety. Men were swarming on to the platform as 
they made for the door. It was securely locked, however, and 
they seemed to be fairly cornered. Jim shoved Mr. Sharp¬ 
less (still protesting! He was not in the least frightened) 
behind the table, and Nat scrambled up on it, facing the room 
from this commanding height. As he did so some secret 
sympathizer — yes, even in that place! — stuffed something 
into his hand; it was the butt of a pistol. “Take it, bub, 
take it; you’re going to need it!” was growled hoarsely in his 
ear. He never even saw this man’s face, nor ever knew who 
it was that had sought to befriend him. For then and there, 
Mr. Burke made what was practically his first and last ap¬ 
pearance as a public speaker. “Men!” he bellowed; and 
being possessed of a good strong throat and a fine pair of 
lungs, and having, moreover, seized by chance upon a mo¬ 
ment when the uproar fell a little, he actually succeeded in 
making himself heard. 

“Men!” shouted Nat; “somebody has just handed me 
this pistol. If the gentleman will step up, I’d like to re¬ 
turn it— ” and this invitation produced, for a wonder, a 
dead silence of sheer curiosity. As the owner of the pistol 
discreetly preserved his incognito-—“Very well!” said 
Burke, and tossed the weapon out of the window. “I don’t 
think we need a pistol in a gathering of American citizens! ” 
he remarked at the top of his lungs, and with the inward cer¬ 
tainty that some of us, at any rate, would never need pistols 
more in our lives! But the bluff worked! This resounding 
sentiment brought forth a round of applause and encourag¬ 
ing yells. “Go on! Speech, speech!” Never was there 
such a violent reversal of popular feeling; it was but mo¬ 
mentary, as Burke knew; yet, looking down on them, of a 
sudden he perceived that this pack of rascals were at least as 
much fools as knaves. They were flighty and inconsequent, 


MR. BURKE CASTS HIS FIRST VOTE 299 


like a flock of sparrows; at once silly and bloody-minded, 
turning from one excitement to another with an incredible 
childishness. 

“I’m not here to do any talking,” he said; “I only want to 
say that the Reverend Mr. Sharpless is ready to go on if 
you—” 

“Aw, shut him up ! Say, sonny, does yer mother know yer 
out?” shouted somebody. And Burke, looking in that 
direction, discovered it to be the proprietor, White Hat Sam 
himself, who, for some reason of his own, did not appear to be 
over-pleased with the peaceable face affairs were now be¬ 
ginning to wear. 

“You were saying, sir?” inquired Nat, civilly. 

“Shut up, we don’t want to be gassed at by no boys like 
you. By God, young feller, I was making my living before 
you were born!” 

“Well, then, by God, sir, you haven’t made it since!” 
retorted Burke, briskly. And this not particularly brilliant 
repartee, addressed to White Hat Sam, who probably had 
never done a stroke of honest labor in his life, moved our 
fellow-citizens to a frenzied hilarity. Lo, who so well-liked 
now as Mr. Burke and his supporters? They were actually 
willing to hear Mr. Sharpless out, but the minister himself 
seemed to have changed his mind and refused in a few grave 
words. The singer came out of retirement (leaving Leroux, 
who was dead drunk by this time, and snoring peacefully) 
and struck up “Whigs of the Union,” which was set to the 
tune of the “ Marseillaise,” and under cover of its enthusiastic 
chorus we all three got away at last. Mr. Sharpless said 
not a word on the trip home. The stars were shining as we 
parted from him at the gate, but it was too dusky beneath 
the low-branched maples along the sidewalk by the parsonage 
to distinguish his expression. 

“I wish you good-night, gentlemen. I thank you both,” 
he said. 

“I hope, Mr. Sharpless, you — you are not going to speak 
in that neighborhood again ? ” said Burke, hesitating. 

“I am not. Sir, I have made my last speech,” said the 
minister. He kept his word. Outside the pulpit, he never 
spoke publicly again. 


300 


NATHAN BURKE 


The election for governor was held the second week in 
October at that time, in advance of the Presidential by three 
or four weeks; and it served, we used to think, as a sort of 
feeling of the political pulse. Nobody had ever heard of 
registration as yet, and we understood there was a rousing 
trade in ballot-stuffing, in repeating, in illegal naturalization, 
in chicanery, bribery, and corruption of all kinds; the papers 
on both sides were full of gloomy warnings against it; no 
candidate, according to the opposition, was ever elected with¬ 
out a most barefaced and vicious resort to these methods. In 
this campaign, British Gold first appeared as an awful 
agent of corruption, the most astonishing thing about it being 
the naivete with which we complained of being corrupted! 
Not yet has that ridiculous old spectre been laid. But Messrs. 
Sharpless and Burke were perhaps not in a position to pass 
judgment on these statements; nobody approached with 
offers to corrupt them in behalf of either Clay or Polk. They 
went soberly and cast their maiden votes; Ohio went Whig, 
securing twenty-three votes in the electoral college for Clay. 
Hurrah, hurrah, the country’s risin’ —! 

Alas for all these high expectations! Look on this picture 
— and now on this! Alas for Henry Clay, for his single- 
minded followers, for Ewing, for Corwin, for Samuel Gwynne 
(the latter retired from public life after this campaign), for 
everybody who had talked his throat out in the good cause, 
and contributed his money, and spent his time! In a month 
how were we all dashed by the news that the Polk-stalks, the 
Polk-berries, the Loco-focos, the Coon-catchers, had triumphed 
after all! “We are beaten, badly beaten,” said the Journal , 
in dignified mourning; “but let us not despair. Let us not 
cease to do our utmost as good citizens, andjwhatever comes, 
even the worst results of our adversaries’ blind and reckless 
policy, even War with all its train of horrors, even Bank¬ 
ruptcy and Despotism, let us, etc. . . 

“If we should have war over Oregon or Texas, would you 
go, Nat,” his friend asked him. 

“ Why, yes — yes, I suppose so. But, pshaw, it’s all talk — 
we won’t have any war.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


Contains both Peace and War 

All this time, with a culpable negligence, I have forgot 
even to glance at the affairs of Mr. George Marsh Ducey — 
surely of no slight moment to this history. The fact is, 
Nathan, who was a busy, or, at least, an industrious young 
man, had latterly seen very little of George, for whose society 
he did not have a strong inclination — the feeling was mu¬ 
tual, without a doubt. We had worn out that ancient joke 
about George’s prowess in the ranks of medicine; for, dis¬ 
gusted with the narrowness of Vardaman’s views, and his 
contemptible prejudice against rising talent, George had 
left the doctor’s office. He shook the dust of that poor abode 
of small scholarship and less skill from his feet; he was by 
nature too compassionate and too sensitive to the sight of 
suffering ever to have relished the calling anyhow, he said. 
There was a kind of crooked truth in the statement. As 
a boy, Burke remembered to have seen George faint at the 
sight of fresh blood; and whereas the other boys gathered 
in a ghoulish mob to witness the decapitation of poultry or 
drowning of superfluous kittens, George would run screaming 
to his mother from the horrid spectacle. So he left Varda¬ 
nian finally after about fifteen or eighteen months in the doc¬ 
tor’s office, as nearly as I recollect, and for a while returned to 
the store, where he probably was as valuable as he had been 
in Burke’s day, and certainly even more ornamental. As 
George grew older his taste for dress and the minute ele¬ 
gancies of life developed to a high degree. His choice in 
cravats, upholstery, ladies’ bonnets, was well-nigh infallible; 
his mother relied on him to match her silks and worsteds to a 
shade — and, at a pinch, he could have worked with them 
upon her embroidery-frame, I dare say. No pent-up 

301 


302 


NATHAN BURKE 


Utica contracted George’s powers, a whole unbounded con¬ 
tinent of accomplishments was his — to parody the hand¬ 
some motto which Mr. Park Benjamin had selected for his 
paper, the* New World, published about this time. Work 
at the store palling on him after an interval, as I have hinted, 
the next thing we heard was that George was studying law; 
myself have seen him, hurrying along the street, intent, 
abstracted, with a forehead corrugated like a Greek column, 
and a green baize bag bulging with books and papers under 
one arm, fruit of his legal studies. He too was in Governor 
Gwynne’s office ! For let nobody imagine for an instant that 
George did not display any stern masculine traits; it is 
possible for a man to be, as he was, extraordinarily proficient 
in the gracious arts of dancing and dressing and matching 
ribbons, while at the same time a very serious, valorous, 
formidable member of society. He was not eligible to vote 
at this last election, although he must certainly have felt 
himself competent to direct the policy of either candidate, 
having given the subject, as he himself told Mr. Burke, a 
thorough and exhaustive study; but he attended some of 
the meetings. You might see George in an erect attitude 
at some conspicuous corner with his arms folded, listening 
to the orator with a fatigued smile, or an occasional slight 
critical and thoughtful frown, and glancing about tolerantly 
when others applauded. George never applauded. He 
was only moved to pity by the view of so many of his fellow- 
citizens so easily wrought upon by the feeble logic which he 
could have exposed and demolished in three words. His 
leanings were distinctly Democratic; according to him the 
one fact in Clay’s favor was that ingrained habit of satisfy¬ 
ing an insult with bloodshed, which most people condemned! 
“Pooh, what would they have a man do?” cried out George, 
with spirit; “sit down patiently under a blow or an affront! 
I’d like to see anybody try it on with me, that’s all!” 

Naturally enough, holding these sentiments, Mr. Ducey 
was a vigorous opponent of British aggression. “Fifty-four- 
forty-or-fight ” was, as one might say, the breath of his 
nostrils; he used to quote, with a devout rage, all the clamors 
of our press about English interference on this continent: 
. . . . “We now hear that Great Britain has advised 
Mexico under no circumstances to acknowledge the inde- 


CONTAINS BOTH PEACE AND WAR 


303 


pendence of Texas; but to keep up an armistice with her as 
long as possible; and in case of a successful attempt at an¬ 
nexation, then to go to war and England would back her in 
the contest !/ / ” 

“By heavens, it makes my blood boil!” says George, 
savagely, pulling up his shirt-collar and throwing out his 
chest as he gazes around the peaceful family-circle seated at 
dinner, after reading out this trustworthy piece of news; 
“by heavens, if I was Polk, I know what I’d do!” His 
mother, knowing George’s martial tastes — he lately joined 
a militia company in high repute with us, the “Montgomery 
Guards,” knew more about military dress and accoutrements 
than any living mortal except the tailors, and paraded on the 
Fourth of July in all his gilt braid and regimentals, the most 
dashing and distinguished soldier of the lot — his mother looks 
at him with fearful and tender eyes. Even Francie, who is not 
an imaginative young woman, appears to be somewhat im¬ 
pressed. Old George Marsh alone sits there, callously sopping 
his bread in gravy and eating his stewed corn with a spoon, quite 
unmoved by George’s heroic utterances. He lost his last 
tooth the other day, and is seriously handicapped in his eating, 
not being able to endure the set of false “uppers and lowers” 
he sent for to New York. He complained to Burke that, by 
damn, he paid a hundred and twenty dollars for ’em, and 
never had a minute’s comfort out of ’em; they kept jumping 
up and getting crossways in his mouth, by damn! He 
looks up, raising his shaggy old eyebrows in that familiar 
gesture: “Knock the stuffing out of ’em, hey, George?” 
he says. “You ain’t any use for British gold, nor British 
anything, have you?” 

“Sir, from any one else that would be an insult!” says 
George, majestically. 

“All right, all right,” says his uncle, in an humble voice, 
but grinning a truly Satanic grin; “I just wanted to know. 
I’m English myself, and I don’t want to make any mistake 
and leave my money where it ain’t wanted, that’s all!” At 
which Mr. George’s wrath cools off with surprising rapidity 
and a rather blank look on the young gentleman’s face. 

“You oughtn’t to get irritated at Uncle George,” his 
mother warns him afterwards; “he’s getting very old and 
feeble, you know.” 


304 


NATHAN BURKE 


It was Jim Sharpless from whom Burke used to hear the 
details of these and like conversations. Jim was a pretty 
constant visitor at the house; it was always full nowadays, 
as in the years of Nathan’s first acquaintance with it, of 
young men, pretty girls, children, singing and laughing, 
pianos going, guitars thrumming. Sharpless could mimic 
the older and younger Ducey, mimic old George, and every¬ 
body else to perfection, sparing no one but Mrs. Ducey, for 
whom he had a chivalric devotion, and — and Miss Frances 
Blake. He talked, I think, a good deal about Miss Frances 
Blake, although Burke, who was quite selfishly absorbed in 
a certain sentimental affair of his own, never noticed it. 
Jim said she could play the piano better than any one he 
knew. “Better than your sister?” said Burke, in wonder. 
As if any piano-playing could equal hers! Well, no, not better 
than Mary, perhaps, but Francie’s — Miss Blake’s, you 
know — was different. And then she had a very sweet 
voice, too; you ought to hear her sing: “True love can ne’er 
forget.” — “But I suppose you have heard her,” Jim said 
with a quick sigh, and fell silent. “I wish I could make 
a lot of money, Nat,” he said, rousing himself again. “Well, 
I will some day, you see! I might close with that Tribune 
offer — I might go to New York — only—” and again he 
was silent, drumming with his fingers on the table. “By 
George, I’ll show ’em yet!” he burst out: “‘For his spirit it 
was tre-men-ju-ous—and went to correcting proofs with 
a laugh. 

His mood, however, was not always so genial; sometimes 
he was depressed, sometimes severe, sometimes merely irri¬ 
table, alternations of temper which Burke, not at all realizing 
that they mirrored some of his own, and are perhaps com¬ 
mon to all lovers, observed with bewilderment. It seems 
to me now that if he had used his eyes and ears, to say noth¬ 
ing of his intelligence, he might have known what ailed Jim, 
and been a little more sympathetic. 

“She looked so pretty to-night, Nat, so pretty. She had 
on some kind of a little dress with pink rosebuds spotted all 
over it, and — and pink ribbons somewhere, I think—” 

“She? Who? Who’re you talking about?” asked that 
thick-headed Nathan, looking up from his brief, agog at 
these millinery statistics from Jim. 


CONTAINS BOTH PEACE AND WAR 


305 


“Why, Francie, of course,” said the other, a little impa¬ 
tiently; “Eve just come from there, you know. George 
was at home. I left him on the front porch, braying co¬ 
piously,Jim added with venom; “the idea of that fellow 
being with her — being in the house where he can see her all 
the time! I believe she sees through George, though; she’s 
known him all her life; she must know all about him, being 
brought up with him that way — just the kind of donkey 
he is, don’t you think so, Nat?” 

Sharpless, indeed, took a malign pleasure in drawing 
George out, and, as it were, parading him before the company 
— or before Francie, for all his efforts were directed with 
one eye on that young person’s good graces. Perhaps she 
did not always understand all of Jim’s sober irony ; I believe 
she was a little afraid of‘ him even when he was writing 
sprightly little epigrams in her album, and putting new 
words to her songs, and telling his gay stories, and drawing 
absurd sketches that made her laugh till she cried. One 
of them, which I have seen, depicted Jim himself, a mon¬ 
strous caricature, gaunt and lath-like, supporting Francie 
in a sort of heraldic attitude upon the back of a chair. “The 
artist cannot do justice to the female figure in this design,” 
he said gravely. “Don’t you remember? It is a great his¬ 
toric occasion — a Fourth of July celebration in the old 
Methodist church years and years ago, when you were a 
wee little girl and were going to be smothered to death in the 
crowd, and I helped you up to the back of the pew and held 
you — don’t you remember ?” asked the young man, with his 
dark eyes on her wistfully. 

“Mercy, no!” said Francie, reddening. 

“I’ve never forgotten it,” Jim said. 

“She remembers everything you used to do, Nathan, 
every single thing, and often speaks about it,” he afterwards 
said, in reciting this scene; and looked at his friend oddly. 

“Well, that wouldn’t be saying much. I never did any¬ 
thing particularly startling that I know of,” Nat said with a 
laugh; “and I wasn’t much of a hand to talk in those days. 
It’s only because I was around the place for two years, and 
left a brilliant memory. By jingo, sir, you don’t realize 
that I was the best chore-boy the Duceys ever had !” 

In fact, the family made Mr. Burke welcome enough when 


306 


NATHAN BURKE 


he went there in his altered role nowadays — o, quantum 
mutatus ab illo Hectore! as Jack Vardanian would have said 
— Mr. Ducey and George with a delicate, patronizing, and 
almost protecting kindness; Mrs. Ducey with a species of 
careful and stilted good manners that made Burke want to 
laugh. She was incapable of disguising the fact that for all 
people said (yes, even Francie’s girl-friends, and her own 
friends, their mammas, said it!) about young Burke being a 
sufficiently well-behaved man, and doing nicely in his pro¬ 
fession, she never could forget what he had been; and equally 
incapable of understanding that he was not at all touchy 
on the subject, nor anxious for her to forget that time. 
“I declare I never know what to say — it’s like walking on 
eggs,” Burke once overheard the poor lady complaining to a 
friend. “Why, my dear, he used to milk our cow! And 
here he is sitting in the parlor, not a bit different from any¬ 
body else. All the young men know him and treat him the 
same as one of themselves, you know. Fm so afraid I’ll 
mention the cow or the chore-boy or something of the sort 
before him — of course, it wouldn’t really be any harm, but 
I want to be kind. It’s like when you meet a Jewish person 
or somebody that’s been divorced, you know, something 
always seems to impel you to talk about Jews or divorced 
people ! Mercy, I’ve done that so many times — and lain 
awake thinking about it, and wondering whether they were 
mad at me, all night long, haven’t you? Uncle George says 
I needn’t worry, because Nathan wouldn’t mind a bit if I 
talked about chore-boys the whole livelong time — but I’m 
always considerate of people’s feelings. I think I can say that 
much of myself anyhow. What ? Oh, yes, he’s doing very 
well, they say. Quite a practice for a young fellow.” 

Burke caught this exposition of Mrs. Ducey’s views, 
through the open parlor window as he sat with Francie on the 
porch a summer evening; and both of them, lacking the pres¬ 
ence of mind to cough or otherwise give notice of their near 
neighborhood, there they sat in some confusion throughout 
the entire speech, delivered in Mrs. Ducey’s clear and ring¬ 
ing tones. Little Francie’s face was a fine red, her eyes 
avoided Nat’s, even when she saw the young man smiling 
broadly. 

“Aunt Anne doesn’t — that is, she — she doesn’t mean, 


CONTAINS BOTH PEACE AND WAR 


307 


Mr. Burke — I mean—” she faltered. Nathan looked at 
her sweet, shy, distressed face with a sudden deep tenderness. 
From the beginning he had felt like an elder brother to this 
little girl. She was his first friend; he even had a fancy 
that but for her he might never have been what he now was; 
the kind little hands had a firm hold on his heart-strings. 
And Francie grown-up, in long trains, with rosettes and lace 
capes and artificial flowers and a dozen wonderful fal-lals, 
was no different from Francie in pantalettes, with her thick 
brown hair braided down her back, as wholesome, as grave, 
straightforward, simple, and tender-hearted. He tried to tell 
her something of this, awkwardly, yet secure of her sym¬ 
pathy if not of her understanding. 

“Why, Francie,” he said, forgetting the “Miss Blake” 
with which he had schooled himself to address her; “you 
didn’t think I could be hurt by that talk of your aunt’s ? 
It’s true I myself seldom talk about the time when I was 
your uncle’s hired man; but it seems to me it would be as 
silly to ram that down people’s throats as it would be to be 
ashamed of it. It makes me think of a story Jim Sharpless 
tells about Geor — about some fellow that told him he was 
a gentleman. ‘Sir, do you know I’m a gentleman?’ says 
this man. ‘All right, that settles it,’ said Jim; ‘when a 
man tells you he’s a gentleman, that ends the argument. 
I haven’t got anything more to say, sir!’ Now you tell 
Mrs. Ducey, won’t you, that she needn’t fight shy of the 
subject. I was her hired man. Amen. I’m not any more. 
I believe I’m too good for a hired man — but I’m not going 
to go around blowing about it one way or the other. People 
always find their level, and end by being taken for what they 
are. There — there’s hardly a person in the world that I’d 
talk to like this about myself except you —he added, a 
little embarrassed, as he realized on a sudden the heat and 
energy of his words. Francie made an abrupt movement. 

“Is — is that so, Nathan? Wouldn’t you really?” she 
asked. She had been playing with the pink ribbons of her 
dress — it may have been that very dress Jim had so ad¬ 
mired— rolling them up and smoothing them out again; 
and she now looked up quickly and very earnestly with her 
eyes on the other’s face. 

“Of course it’s so. You’ve always understood even when 


308 


NATHAN BURKE 


you were a little thing — there never will be anybody quite 
the same to me as you, Francie — you don’t mind my telling 
you that, do you — ?” 

“No, I — I don’t mind,” said Francie in a small voice; 
and leaned back with her face in the shadow of the vine. 

“I never had a sister — but I like to pretend that if I had, 
she’d be just like you, your age, and — and just the way 
you are,” said Nat. “Don’t you remember your quarter ? 
I’ve got it still; I’m going to keep it always. You once said 
you’d like me to when I was going away and wouldn’t be 
chore-boy any more — do you remember that ? You were 
always the dearest little girl, always!” 

“Oh, you’ve said that hundreds of times !” said Francie, 
jumping up; “I’m tired of — of sitting here. I want to go 
in where the others are — let’s go in!” 

So they went in, Burke more or less worried at some inex¬ 
plicable change in her manner, and observing that she did, 
in fact, look weary and out of spirits in the strong lamp¬ 
light. But she revived presently when Sharpless came in, 
and was quite gay and vivacious for the rest of the evening. 
Nat and his friend did not often meet at this house to which 
the latter seemed so attracted, Burke preferring the parlor 
and piano and society of another young lady, whom he 
visited nowadays more frequently and with much more con¬ 
fidence than heretofore. Did Jim notice it ? Somehow 
or other her brother is the last person on earth in whom a 
lover will confide. And although Nat had scarcely a thought 
or plan which he did not talk over with Sharpless, he never 
mentioned this dearest thought, this most cherished plan of 
all. No; instead, Mr. Burke must hunt up an unfortunate 
youth, that same young Lewis with whom he had made his 
legal studies, and pour out to him all his hopes, fears, raptures. 
In after years he blushed to recall this folly; hardly could he 
recognize his own normally sober and taciturn character 
under this obsession. He has sat in shame and admiring 
astonishment, remembering the unfailing patience, and good- 
humor, and serious attention with which the other received 
him. It would seem as if a young man must talk at such a 
time or burst, boil over with his frank and fervid egotism 
— I — my — me — she! One trembles to figure what 
might happen if he could not thus relieve himself; and un- 


CONTAINS BOTH PEACE AND WAR 30 b 


luckily for Lewis, Mr. Nat could not, for obvious reasons, 
employ his other close friend, Dr. Vardaman, as a safety- 
valve. 

Yet Jack was no longer to be regarded as a dangerous rival; 
he was some years the senior of us all, and fast becoming, 
in the popular estimation, a settled old bachelor. Already 
he displayed certain middle-aged tastes about his table, 
his wine, his clothes. Jack Vardaman would never marry 
anybody, people said, and they would pity the girl if he did; 
he was just as set! But that old affair with Louise Gwynne 
— Louise Andrews — six or seven years ago, that finished 
Jack Vardaman; he’d never look at another woman. He 
liked to stay at home in the evenings, reading his worn, dog’s- 
eared, and be-pencilled copy of Horace, while Miss Clara 
knitted tidies by the lamp on the other side of the mahogany 
table, and the cat purred on the hassock between them. 
They lived in great comfort; the doctor spent a good deal of 
money on his hobbies — a trait which, of itself, indicated- 
that he had not the makings of a first-rate husband and family 
man. He had cases of books sent out to him from Paris, 
London, Amsterdam; and portfolios of beautiful steel- 
engravings and prints — “what he wants with them I’m 
sure I don’t know,” his sister said in gentle complaint; 
“ever so many of the books are dreadful old things with 
those worn-out leather bindings that come off in crumbs all 
over his clothes — he says they’re first editions, you know, 
and for all they’re so shabby, it positively scares me to think 
of the prices he pays for them. And those pictures have to 
stay in the portfolios, Mr. Burke — he won’t hear of having 
them framed — such a job to dust and take care of ! Not 
that I mind, of course; I love to do things for John,” she 
added hastily. 

Miss Clara had got over all her first diffidence with Burke; 
his companionship with the doctor, his frequent appearance 
at her well-provided and always most beautifully appointed 
table, the good-feeling manifested towards him by her poodle 
and Angora — all these things had gradually made a place 
for him in her maidenly heart. He never came in without 
carefully dusting off his boots — he was punctual to the 
moment when invited to a meal — he took off his coat and 
hung a picture for her — he had such nice white teeth — 


310 


NATHAN BURKE 


what higher recommendations could a young man need? 
Burke himself was genuinely fond of the doctor’s sister, 
who, for all her naivete and her odd little nervous ways, 
was a kind and sensible and not at all dull woman; and, 
strange to say, much more tolerant of masculine practices 
and peculiarities and faults than many an experienced wife 
and mother. “I have my sister very well trained,” Jack 
used to say, sitting at his end of the table and looking over 
the handsome silver and glassware to where Miss Clara 
smiled at him from behind the urn; “observe, gentlemen: 
she has no objection to the institution of the night-key, that 
familiar bone of contention. She would let me keep my boots 
on the parlor mantelpiece, if I wanted to. When I smash 
my thumb-nail with the hammer and swear ferociously, she 
merely remarks, ‘Oh, dear!’ and fetches the arnica—” 

“You know you never swear, John!” cried out Miss Clara; 
“it’s just his fun, Mr. Sharpless. And besides, he was open¬ 
ing that last case of books and the hammer slipped and hurt 
him dreadfully — anybody would have sworn — Jack couldn’t 
help it.” 

“She sees no harm in a drink or a game of billiards,” 
pursued Yardaman. “Is there a woman in this town of whom 
you could say that?” 

“Really, John, you’ll make them think I’m awful,” said 
Miss Vardanian, anxiously; “I know men oughtn’t to — 
but, dear me, I’ve done awfully bad things in my life, too 
— not drinking nor playing billiards, you know, but things 
I oughtn’t to have done, and—” 

The doctor got up from his chair and went to her, and took 
her pretty hand and kissed it with a grave bow and flourish. 
“Take that, oh, very bad woman, you who spend your whole 
life making me such a very good home,” he said. “ Gentlemen, 
tell the truth: Did you ever see so happy a married couple?” 

And as the friends paced home that night, smoking in 
the pleasant summer darkness, they remarked to each other, 
as they had many times before, that from one point of view 
Vardaman would make a great mistake to marry. No wife 
would give him his sister’s worship, her unselfish devotion, 
her tireless thought. But, to tell the truth, there seemed 
to be very little prospect of marriage for either one of them. 
Miss Clara would not have dreamed of deserting her brother, 


CONTAINS BOTH PEACE AND WAR 311 


and it looked less and less likely that Jack would ever make 
a change. 

“Pm so glad the doctor won’t go to the war,” she told 
Burke one day; “at least he’s promised me he won’t — I 
made him promise me, and John always keeps his word!” 
She was very much excited, with a bright color in her fading 
cheeks; her knitting-needles rattled tremulously. Burke 
looked at her in amazement and some perplexity. 

“War?” he said; “where? what war?” 

“Why, with — with Texas — no, I mean it’s Mexico, isn’t 
it, Mr. Burke? Or with England — anyway, Jack says it’s 
bound to come, so I made him promise he wouldn’t enlist. 
And Mr. Sharpless’s sermon last Sunday — you were there, 
weren’t you, I thought I saw you walking home with Mary 
— about 1 woe to them that devise iniquity, and about their 
coveting the fields and taking them away by violence, was 
just meant for Texas or the Mexicans or the English, I don’t 
know which, but everybody said so.” She paused, out of 
breath, knitting vehemently. 

“Oh, well, we’re not at war yet. I guess we’d better not 
cross that bridge till we come to it, had we?” said Burke, 
amused. “Anyhow, it won’t be with England, Miss Varda¬ 
nian; it will be with Mexico, — and we won’t have any trouble 
licking them” said the young fellow, arrogantly, voicing the 
supreme self-confidence of his day. 

“But I thought they were saying all that about the Eng¬ 
lish wanting to fight us in — in Mexico, on account of their 
wanting to be annexed, you know,” said poor Miss Clara, 
helplessly; “I can’t get it straight in my head somehow.” 

“No wonder. That’s just all newspaper talk — just 
balderdash!” Burke explained contemptuously; “the 
Texans do want to be annexed, there can’t be any doubt 
about that, and I shouldn’t wonder if there’d be trouble on 
that account, maybe, — not war, you know, but serious trouble. 
But Great Britain would be neutral in any case. Don’t 
you remember that letter of the English Prime Minister, or 
whatever his position is, Lord Aberdeen? Where he said 
they’d be glad to see Texas admitted if slavery were to be 
done away with, but that England would keep out of it, 


1 See Micah ii. 1, 2. 


312 


NATHAN BURKE 


because it wasn’t any of her affair — words to that effect* 
you know. He was perfectly honest and meant every word 
of it, and I thought it was a fine letter,” declared Mr. Burke, 
with warmth; “we’re all the time marching around with a 
chip on our shoulder. ” 

“Why, no, you haven’t any chip, Mr. Burke — I’m sure 
I never saw anybody with a chip!” said Miss Clara, as¬ 
tounded; “I don’t see how you could keep one there.” 

“I meant figuratively.” 

“ Oh, figuratively! ” 

“We’re all the time marching around in front of England, 
and suspecting her of all kinds of low, underhand tricks, 
and the English are constantly doing very noble and manly 
things — like suppressing the slave-trade, for instance.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” assented the lady, rather tepidly; 
“at least that’s the way John talks — but John knows. 
Anyway the Oregon boundary fuss is all over, isn’t it? 
That’s what mixed me up so about Texas. Last year every¬ 
body was wanting to fight England about Oregon. And 
when it was settled, and they had signed all the treaties and 
everything, I just thought, ‘Well there! We won’t hear 
anything more about England for one while!’ And here 
they began right away about England and Texas — no, 
Mexico — no, Texas, isn’t it ? So confusing ! John’s not 
going anyhow. Now just don’t say anything for a minute, 
will you, Mr. Burke? I might get interested, and lose my 
place, you know, I have to count the stitches right here — 
one too many would throw the pattern all out of shape.” 

I dare say in hundreds of homes all over the land during 
that winter and spring of ’46, worried wives, mothers, and 
sisters were exacting like promises from their restless men¬ 
folk. That cloud no larger than a man’s hand, which has 
done yeoman’s duty in metaphor for generations, had ap¬ 
peared upon our horizon; it was spreading daily, daily grow¬ 
ing more black and menacing. It had threatened since San 
Jacinto, since the Alamo, since Stephen Austin and the ear¬ 
liest settlers first set foot in Texan territory. I think, in 
the very nature of things, in human nature, it was impossible 
to avert this struggle; the Democratic triumph at the polls 
in the last election proved — if it proved nothing else — 


CONTAINS BOTH PEACE AND WAR 


313 


the popularity of annexation measures, with war or without 
it. The opposite party did not hesitate to heap obloquy 
upon the heads of the President and his advisers, to warn, 
rebuke, solemnly and righteously condemn; but if Polk and 
the rest had been the apostles of peace and Quakerism, I do 
not see how they could have refused the war. It is idle to 
compare notes as to which nation began it, or whose was the 
just quarrel; you may labor through a dozen histories, and 
end with the conviction expressed in that sound and homely 
old saying that the Pot called the Kettle black. When it 
came to the point, which of us cared a jot for the blackness 
of either the Pot or the Kettle ? The lust of fighting had been 
born in us and strengthened apace; Nat Burke, with all his 
talk about moderation and justice and common sense, was, 
at the long last, just as eager for the bloody, hellish, foolish 
business of war as the most rabid Democrat of them all, just 
as indifferent to reason, just as impatient of argument or 
compromise. The country was full of high-spirited, adven¬ 
turous, cock-sure boys ready to rush into the lists the moment 
the trumpet should sound. I remember that the whole 
previous summer, before Congress passed the Joint Resolu¬ 
tion and Texas entered the Union, before Taylor was ordered 
to the Border, before General Almonte asked the govern¬ 
ment at Washington for his passports — before and during 
all these exciting events, but while we were as yet in an uncer¬ 
tainty how it all would end, there was a great increase of zeal 
and enthusiasm manifest amongst all our militia bodies. There 
was more marching and drilling, more study of the manual 
of tactics and military manoeuvres (Cooper’s, recommended 
by the general-in-chief of the United States Army), more 
serious play at soldiering. Had not George Ducey joined? 
Mr. Burke joined, too, to the infinite amusement of his Demo¬ 
cratic friends. “What, thou too, Brutus!” said Sharpless, 
in tragic accents, coming home and finding Nat’s beautiful 
new regimentals spread out on the bed, and this good, peace- 
loving Whig contemplating them fondly; “then, Caesar, 
fall!” said Jim — and did fall upon his own bed in spasms 
of whole-souled laughter. Nat grinned shamefacedly ; he 
had just been elected captain of his company. 

Somewhat to the disappointment, I will not say of Mr. 
Burke, but of the fire-eaters who were clamoring for battle, 


314 


NATHAN BURKE 


there succeeded a sort of lull. To be sure, the Presidents 
message contained some carefully worded intimations of 
trouble existing; but relations had not yet been broken off. 
The internal affairs of our unfortunate neighbor were in vio¬ 
lent disorder and approaching a crisis; much was to be 
expected from the exertions of that eminent diplomatist, Mr. 
John Slidell — of whom, strange to say, none of us had ever 
heard before — who was upon the point of departure to open 
negotiations with the Mexican Minister of Foreign Affairs, 
Senor de la Pena y Pena. Everything might yet be well. 
“As for war with Mexico on our part, it is out of the ques¬ 
tion,” said the Journal, editorially. “It would be coward¬ 
ice to strike a blow upon so weak and divided a foe, and folly 
in the extreme to resort to arms when a let-alone policy 
would accomplish all that ultra southern politicians may 
desire. ... A few weeks, perhaps a few days, will tell 
us what will be the end of this Mexican business.” 

Oh, wise editor, man of much foresight, the end was already 
begun! As you sat at your ink-blurred table, turning off 
copy with the boy waiting at your elbow, as you shoved the 
wet sheets towards him, and got up and put off your mangy 
old office-coat, white at all the seams and much rubbed along 
the right sleeve, and horrid with paste and ink-stains, Santa 
Anna, released from prison and exile, may have been landing. 
As you assumed your respectable street garments, and 
trudged home to Betsy and the children and the Irish stew 
for dinner, the guns of a revolution were roaring, and Herrera 
was in full flight, and Paredes reigned in his stead — and 
where was Pena y Pena? Where that eminent diplomatist 
and dove of peace, Mr. John Slidell ? He had arrived in 
Puebla on the eve of the dissolution; three times he presented 
his credentials, and was finally officially informed that the 
Mexican Government (that stable institution!) “could not 
admit him to the exercise of the functions conferred on him 
by the Government of the United States.” With this Pena 
y Pena disappears, and history reveals his name no more. 
Herrera’s administration was overthrown; in January, 
Paredes, a military chief, was ushered by the troops into the 
capital of Mexico, and a temporary government was formed 
with General Almonte, late minister to the United States, at 
its head — or among its heads. Mr. Slidell retreated to 


CONTAINS BOTH PEACE AND WAR 


315 


Jalapa, whence he again attempted to obtain a hearing, 
and again received an unequivocal denial, this time from 
the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sen or Costillo y Lanzas. 
On March 8, 1846, the advance column of the United States 
troops under Colonel Twiggs (the Second Regiment Dra¬ 
goons) was in motion from Corpus Christi towards the Rio 
Grande; on the 18th the army reached the Arroyo Colorado; 
on the 21st Senor Costillo y Lanzas enclosed to Mr. Slidell 
his passports from the Mexican territories; on the 28th 
General Taylor mounted his batteries before Matamoros. 


CHAPTER XXIII 
The Girl I left behind Me 

It took all this stirring news much longer to reach us than 
would appear from the summary; the editor of the Journal 
and scores of other editors had plenty of time for their placid 
prophesying. News from Texas was in the neighborhood 
of three weeks upon the road to us in the more distant States; 
and it was received with surprise, perhaps with a lurking 
dismay, in spite of the months, even years, of uneasiness and 
violence, of protest and recrimination and popular outcry, 
that had preceded it. We found it hard to credit. The 
mind involuntarily pictures a country upon the eve of war 
distracted with excitement, salvos firing, flags flaunting, 
churches crowded with weeping petitioners, artillery rattling 
through the streets, clamor of men and clangor of trumpets. 
Instead of all that here we were peacefully going about our 
business, reading the paper with a more lively interest per¬ 
haps, but tranquilly predicting that there would be no war 
almost up to the very last moment. In all our lives, young 
and old, none of us could remember the time when any¬ 
body could say with certainty what might be happening in 
the huge, dim, vacant West, so remote it was, unknown, 
unconquered, sprinkled with dots like Sahara in our maps 
and called the Great American Desert; there was always 
fighting there or somewhere; it was natural, whether with 
Indians or Mexicans; but war with ranked troops and cannon 
bellowing across the hills we were slow to accept. That 
spring the Scioto rose in its annual freshet, and swept away 
the rail-fences on its banks, and drowned a hog or two, and 
invaded the Bottoms; the red buds touched the gray woods 
with color; the orchards bloomed prettily; Mrs. Ducey 
gave Francie a party on her birthday and the house 
was wreathed with dogwood blossoms; Mr. James Sharp¬ 
less was drawn on the grand jury, and served much against 
his will, but lacking a potent excuse; Mr. Nathan Burke 

316 





THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


317 


argued a case before the Court-in-Bank, and won it; and 
the Journal ‘Teamed from the St. Louis Republican that 
the following companies and officers of the 16th Regmt. 
U. S. Infantry were under marching orders for Texas and 
would leave as soon as possible: Lt. Col. Wilson, command¬ 
ing Company K, Bt. Major Abercrombie, etc.” 

• 

It may even very well be that the echoes of Resaca de la 
Palma had hardly died away, and the pursuit was still roll¬ 
ing backward to the Rio Grande, while Mr. Burke sat and 
listened to “The Battle of Prague,” a pleasant evening in 
May, with the scent of the lilacs coming in at the windows 
of the little parlor. Mary’s light dress made a soft bright 
blur by the piano ; she had lilac ribbons to match — a spray 
of the fresh flowers in her black hair — ladies wore them in 
those days. 

“You are so fond of martial music, aren’t you, Mr. Burke ?” 

“I don’t know much about any kind of music, you know,” 
said the gentleman, with a laugh; “Jim and the doctor make 
fun of me. But I like to hear you play anything — you 
know that.” 

“I heard Dr. Vardaman was going to build a house for 
himself on that place he bought out by Governor Gwynne’s, 
after all,” Mary said, arranging the music. “Do you sup¬ 
pose he means to get married ? Have you any idea who it 
is?” 

“Married? Jack? Oh, that’s a mistake — I don’t think 
he has the least notion of such a thing. He has been talking 
about building. He says he means to have a regular man’s 
house — he jokes a good deal about it, and Miss Clara is in 
quite a state for fear he won’t let her have any closets.” 

“So you think it’s nothing but gossip ? I’m very sorry. I 
hoped it was true. He’d be so much happier with a wife, 
don’t you think so? People said he’d been attentive to 
Jennie Hunter — but she’s engaged to Horace Gwynne now. 
Jennie would have made a lovely doctor’s wife. I’m so 
sorry. Shall I play something else, Mr. Burke? Here’s 
Handel — ‘ Rinaldo ’ — ‘I’ll make war, and my foes I’ll 
conquer!’ You ought to like that. I believe you’d go 
and fight in Mexico, if you had the chance. You wouldn’t 
care how people felt about — about seeing you go.” 



318 


NATHAN BURKE 


“ Why, yes, I’d go — I’m just the kind that ought to go,” 
said Nat, honestly; “there isn’t anybody depending on me, 
or worrying about me, you know. My going wouldn’t make 
any difference to a soul on earth. Men without ties are the 
very ones that ought to enlist.” 

“I — I don’t think you ought to talk that way — it’s not 
true — and it’s not kind to — to your frjends,” said Mary, in 
a low voice. She looked at him, and away again hastily. 
Were there tears in her eyes ? The next moment she began 
to finger the piano-keys in those little preparatory runs and 
trills that most players affect. “I’ll play the ‘ Rinaldo.’ 
Wouldn’t you like to hear it ? Will you turn, please ?” 

He got up and turned obediently; that is, he turned one 
leaf; and then, standing over her, and looking down at her 
face with the fair, almost pallid complexion, and features a 
little delicately sharpened this last year or so, forgot every¬ 
thing else until the abrupt cessation of the music made him 
start. 

“What are you doing, idle man?” said Mary, lifting her 
gray eyes at him with an archly severe expression. “Why 
don’t you turn ? If you were one of my pupils, I would rap 
your knuckles. What are you thinking of ?” 

“I was thinking of you,” said Nat. 

She started up, her white skirts and ribbons rustling and 
fluttering, her eyes very wide and dark as they rested on the 
young man’s face where, perhaps, she saw some unwonted 
or telltale expression; and put out one of her hands almost 
appealingly. But Burke took it in his own, and held it 
close. 

“Mary —” he said. 

And I think the gray-haired individual who writes this 
history will spare himself and everybody else a recital of 
what followed. He must be a strange sort of man who 
relishes witnessing another man’s love-making. I have 
beheld upon the stage a thousand scenes of men and women 
sighing and vowing and kissing and protesting — I have 
waded through countless novels where the sentimentalizing 
monopolized two-thirds of one’s time — and I swear I never 
did either without a profound embarrassment. I shrank 
guiltily from spying upon their confidences; I felt as if I 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


319 


were listening and peeping at the keyhole. Are these things 
to be watched and exploited ? We had better beware of med¬ 
dling with all this sweet foolishness, else we shall destroy the 
sweetness and have nothing left but the folly. My grandson 
would no more care to read the tale of his grandfather’s 
sweethearting than he would enjoy having the old gentle¬ 
man pop in upon him and his Phyllis or Chloe at an interest¬ 
ing moment — from which maladroit action, Heaven defend 
us both! All that he needs or wants to know is that Mr. 
Burke went home along the star-lit streets, a little later than 
was his habit, very happy after his quiet fashion. He was 
too happy, in fact, to go to bed at once, and sat down to 
await the arrival of her brother Jim, in an arm-chair looking 
out upon the roofs and chimney-pots and stars. It was not a 
poetic vista, but Burke’s thoughts were elsewhere; and no one 
knows what pictures of a home, a family, a long, bright, endless 
future Mrs. Slaney’s shabby casement framed for him. He was 
still sitting thus when the city clocks struck twelve, and he 
heard at last Jim’s foot on the stair; he came running up 
boyishly, two steps at a time, and whirled into the room. 
The walls shook as he banged the door, the flame of the lamp 
leaped upon the wick. 

“Nat, have you heard it? Have you heard the news? 
No — I forgot! Of course you can’t have heard. The 
letters just came into the office — I left ’em working like 
beavers at an extra—” 

“Heard what? What under the sun has happened?” 
Burke asked, wondering. 

“Why, it’s come! War, I mean, war, Nathan B., war! 
We might have known we couldn’t get out of it. Look here ! ” 
he snatched a roll of papers from his pockets and spread them 
crackling under the light. “ I scratched off a copy. It’s from 
the Galveston News — they’ve had fighting, Nat. Not bush¬ 
whacking around in corners, you know, but fighting. Look 
here, it’s dated the thirtieth of last month, and this is May 
the what, do you know ?” 

“The eleventh — it’s the eleventh,” said Nat, himself 
excited. 

“They’d had fighting down there where Taylor is already 
when this was written, and they must have had more since. 
Read that: — 


320 


NATHAN BURKE 


Latest News 

MEXICANS OPEN HOSTILITIES!!! 

War now Inevitable !!!! 

We learn that on the 24th inst. Gen'l Taylor ordered Capt. 

S. B. Thornton of the 2d dragoons with a detail of 61 men 
to make a reconnoissance at the crossing of the river (Bravo 
del Norte) above Ft. Brown. Accompanying Capt. Thorn¬ 
ton were Capt. Hardee, Lieutenants Mason and Kane. Ac¬ 
cording to the latest and most trustworthy reports at a 
point about thirty miles above the American camp, they 
were surprised by a large force of Mexicans, and after the 
loss of 16 men killed and wounded, compelled to surrender. 

The action took place in a plantation surrounded by a thick 
chaparral fence, the enemy out-numbering Thornton's 
command at least ten to one, it is stated. Lieutenant 
Mason fell mortally wounded at the first fire; it has been 
impossible so far to obtain definite details, but it is sup¬ 
posed that about ten or a dozen escaped, the Mexicans tak¬ 
ing twenty-five or more prisoners, among them Thornton 
and Kane. We hope to publish a list of the killed, 
wounded, and missing within a few daj's. . . . 

It had come, sure enough. “There’s an end of all the blow¬ 
ing and coat-tail-dragging, and face-making, and you’re-an- 
other-ing,” said Jim; “only think, they may be hard at it, 
hammer-and-tongs this minute !” 

“Shouldn’t wonder. We ought to get a map, and find 
out where some of these places are,” Burke said, studying 
the papers; “Bravo del Norte is just another name for the 
Rio Grande, I guess. But what on earth is chaparral, do 
you suppose ? ” 

“Some kind of a thorny plant, cactus or something, I 
think. Are you going Nat ? If they call for volunteers, I 
mean? You’ve always said you’d go.” 

Burke started. Was he going? Why, yes, of course — 
and yet — he hesitated, looking at his friend shyly, almost 
timidly. “Yes, I’ll go — at least I ought to go, only — it’s 
a little different now,” he said, and swallowed uneasily, red¬ 
dening. 

“Hey, different ?” 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


321 


“I — I was going to tell you some — some news, too, Jim, 
only I — you began first with this — I —” 

“What is it?” said Jim, unsuspectingly. He had drawn 
a chair to the table and was leaning over the despatches, 
with his head propped between his hands. “What did you 
say, Nat ?” 

“ I’m going to —to be married.” 

Sharpless looked up abruptly; their eyes met in a brief 
silence. “Married?” 

“Not at once, of course, I don’t mean that — I — I’m not 
making quite enough for that yet, but I will in a year or so, 
I guess. I’m engaged, though,” said Nat, blushing with a 
silly delight in the statement. “Can’t you guess who it is ?” 

Jim’s face paled strangely; he rose, leaning his weight on 
the table, braced upon his hands. The motion was like that 
of an old man; he cleared his throat. “I — I — it’s Miss 
Blake, I suppose, Nat — of course, it’s Miss Blake.” 

“Francie?” said Burke, in surprise and a faint disappoint¬ 
ment; “why, no — what made you think of her? It’s — 
I don’t know why you don’t know, Jim — I’ve never looked 
at any other girl — to be sure I never spoke of it to you, 
but I—I couldn’t somehow—it’s your sister—it’s Mary.” 

There was another flat and somehow disconcerting silence. 
“Mary!” repeated Jim, vacantly; “my sister Mary?” 

“Yes. Why do you look so ?” said Nat, hurt. He 
scarcely knew what he had expected, but certainly not this. 
“Haven’t you got anything to say to me, Jim? Aren’t 
you — don’t you like it ? Aren’t you a little glad ? ” 

The other’s face flushed all over; the tears came into his 
eyes. He kicked the chair noisily away from him and ran 
up to Burke and grasped his two hands. “Why, Nat, glad! 
Of course I’m glad. I was only taken aback for a minute. 
I’m such a dunce I never noticed it — never noticed anything, 
you know. But glad! Still, I couldn’t care more for you 
even if you were my brother twice over, Nat, you know 
that!” 

And the next day, Burke had his second interview with the 
Reverend Mr. Sharpless, which passed off not ill; and with 
Mrs. Sharpless, who was very kind, and called him her dear 
boy in a rather trembling voice, reaching up to pat his 
shoulder, being on the whole, as the young man remarked 


322 


NATHAN BURKE 


inwardly with some perplexity, in an inexplicable way, more 
sweet and tender with him than Mary herself. The news of 
the engagement being spread abroad, various others came 
and shook hands with him impressively; and Jack Vardaman 
congratulated him heartily in a tone that left no possible 
doubt of his sincerity and disinterestedness; but, after all, 
there was comparatively little notice taken of the event, for, 
at the time, Nat’s world had something else upon its mind. 

However ignorant we may have been of the Mexican 
country and people when the news of Thornton’s brush 
with the enemy reached us, there was no dearth of infor¬ 
mation and statistics afterwards. Maps were as plentiful as 
blackberries in August; they were published in every paper, 
sold in every shop, carried in every pocket; almost any¬ 
body could tell you offhand the exact location of Point 
Isabel (where our troops would probably be landed, in case 
—?); of Matamoros (twenty-seven miles southwest from 
Point Isabel); of Corpus Christi, whence the army had 
marched. George Ducey was especially strong on these 
figures and calculations, and knew precisely what General 
Taylor’s next move ought to be. The New Orleans Picayune 
came out with a list, “which might be valuable for reference,” 
of the area and population of all the states comprised in the 
Estados Unidos Mexicanos; it was widely copied, and the 
figures might have been alarming, if any of us had stopped to 
consider them; but we struggled awhile with the unfamiliar 
syllables — Guanaxuato — Coahuila — Tamaulipas — and 
cast them aside in impatience and contempt. All that we 
cared about was news direct and hot from the scene itself; 
there had been more fighting, there must have been more 
fighting, and how had we fared ? We believed in our hearts 
that one American was equal to half a dozen Mexicans; 
nevertheless Taylor had only four thousand men — no, only 
twenty-five hundred — no — well, whatever it was, he had 
only a handful, whereas General Arista on the other side of 
the Rio Grande might draw on those entire Estados Unidos 
Mexicanos which lay, in a manner of speaking, at his elbow. 
We might have been in some uncertainty and apprehension, 
but that spirit surely inherited, however remotely and how¬ 
ever diluted, from the Anglo-Saxon, that serene, confident, 
sanguine spirit of the dominant race, upheld us. It was in- 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


323 


conceivable that a parcel of half-breed Spanish, Mexicans, 
Indians, what-not (thus we scornfully imagined them), with 
a general whom probably not one-third of them would obey, 
could beat and keep on beating United States soldiers under 
a man like old Zack Taylor, a seasoned officer, a veteran of 
1812, the hero of a score of fights from Fort Harrison to the 
Everglades. “I do not feel much anxiety about Gen’l 
Taylor’s position,” wrote old General Felix Huston, from 
Port Huron; “I think he will lose more horses than men. 
I cannot think, with good generalship, the Mexicans can 
defeat him. I have not the highest opinion of the material 
of his army, but I will gamble on it they do not whip him. 
. . . The fact is, an American volunteer army, composed 
of clerks and loafers, mechanics and fiddlers, farmers and 
flatboat-men, backwoodsmen and city dandies, can fight any 
people on any ground; and from Daniel Boone down to the 
present time, they have beat Indians and Mexicans in all 
kinds of brush and logs, ‘everglades’ and ‘chaparrals.’ 
. . . Those d—d ‘chaparrals’ stick in my craw. As 
soon as I heard the regular army officers talking about 
‘chaparrals,’ I thought, charge Uncle Sam with $40,000 
for ‘chaparrals’! It puts me in mind of everglades and 
hummocks. Every place where 300 baggage-wagons can¬ 
not get along has some d—d hard namt.” 

This stout old warrior, sitting down to give vent to the 
above opinions with his unaccustomed pen, offers to Burke’s 
mind a singularly humorous, spirited, and agreeable picture; 
and his letter somehow puts before one more vividly than 
any words of this historian the temper of our time. Beat 
them ? Of course we should beat them ! We could beat them 
with one hand tied behind us ! But, in the meanwhile, what 
was happening ? In a day or two, Taylor’s letter, written 
three or four weeks back, calling on the governor of Louisi¬ 
ana for troops, was published; so that there could hardly 
be a doubt that some of the clerks, loafers, backwoodsmen, 
and dandies had had a chance to display their prowess before 
this. The general recommended General P. F. Smith to 
command these gentry; he subjoined a plan for the organiza¬ 
tion of the volunteer regiments. Fellow-citizens ! To arms ! 
“Texans, you have at last an opportunity of retaliating on 
these perfidious Mexicans the many injuries they have done 


324 


NATHAN BURKE 


you —!” There was renewed and very great activity 
amongst our militia bodies. The Montgomery Guards, the 
German military companies, drilled feverishly; Captain 
Burke’s command made brilliant progress; Lieutenant 
Ducey stalked around breathing out fire and slaughter. 
I should not have liked to be the Mexican to come within 
reach of George’s doughty arm; he would have had to get 
briskly about his heathenish Mexican prayers. It was a 
Monday morning that Mr. Burke, not having seen the paper 
as yet, was stepping along towards his office when at the 
corner of State and High streets he encountered a crowd 
so numerous and unusual for that comparatively early 
hour that he paused to reconnoitre it — reconnoitre being 
the word that sprang spontaneously before his mind and 
made him smile. “ We’re getting very military,” he thought, 
and pushed up to a place whence he could see that the cause 
of detention was not two men fighting or one man having a 
fit, but a bill already posted high up. The artist who had ac¬ 
complished this work was departing with his ladder and paste- 
pail and brushes, and a roll of similar bills under his arm. 
“Going to enlist, Sam ?” some one sung out, waving an arm 
at an acquaintance over the hats and shoulders. “You bet! ” 
Burke raised on tiptoe and craned his neck to read: — 

“Whereas, the Coiigress of the United States by virtue of 
the Constitutional Authority vested in them have declared 
. . . that by the act of the Republic of Mexico, a state of 
war exists between that government and the United States. 
Now, therefore, I, James K. Polk, President of the United 
States, do hereby proclaim the same . . . enjoin all persons 
holding civil or military authority ... to be vigilant and 
zealous ...” 

Burke walked away meditatively, and found the Journal 
at his door with a wailing editorial on the general war in which 
the President had unwarrantably involved the country. 
“But the mischief is done now. Let nothing prevent the 
Whigs from doing their whole duty in the defence of the 
country — it is enough that our flag is in danger—” the 
article continued in that mood of pious resignation which a 
paper of good Whig principles must adopt — and blithely 
went to discussing the probable size of Ohio’s quota of troops 
in the next column ! In another day we had news of the bom- 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


325 


bardment and fall of Matamoros, and of the victories of Palo 
Alto and Resaca; and Governor Bartley issued his call for 
volunteers. 

Nat Burke was one of the first to respond to that invita¬ 
tion. The young man was not by nature impulsive; he 
had his reckless and visionary moments, but a sober second 
thought generally corrected them. And when he went and 
enrolled himself and took the oath before the United States 
Army officers who were in charge of the enlistments, it was 
with no brilliant images of glory and valor and renown; 
he thought he was performing a natural, proper, and dutiful 
act, for the simple reasons he had given his betrothed. It 
was no surrender of his legal career, which he meant to resume 
upon his return. And if he did not return — but you and 
I know that it is always the other fellow who is going to be 
killed. I do not remember that Burke ever gave any more 
consideration to that possibility during his military expe¬ 
rience than he did at any other time of his life. Who, aside 
from misanthropes and hypochondriacs, ever deliberately 
sits down to contemplate his death and fading hours ? Why, 
nobody, not even those warily devout people who are forever 
preaching these things at us! Mr. Burke made arrange¬ 
ments with his friend Lewis to take over his business and 
went about his preparations with a kind of placid zest. 
For one instant, as we have seen, he hesitated, thinking of 
Mary, but it was only for an instant. And, to tell the truth, 
the young lady herself received the announcement of his 
resolution with comparative calm — which, inconsistently 
enough, Burke a little resented. If Mary had burst into tears 
and flung herself into his arms, he would have felt a little 
foolish, yet still been obscurely pleased. The most modest 
and least self-assertive of men likes to be a hero to his women- 
kind — yes, even when he laughs at their absurd unwar¬ 
ranted admiration, he is secretly tickled. But Mary gave 
way to no such hysterical demonstrations; Burke was 
struck, as he had been once or twice before in his life, with 
the extraordinary difference in women, whom we serenely 
assume to be all of one pattern. Little Francie Blake had 
hung on his neck with wild tears when he was only going away 
a step. Of course she was nothing but a child, and she would 
not do such a thing now; but she might exhibit quite as much 


326 


NATHAN BURKE 


emotion over his departure as the girl he was engaged to, 
without indecorum. Mary was almost as much elated and 
excited as the young fellows who were enlisting right and left 
in these few weeks. 

“I wish I could go, too — if I were a man, I would go,” 
she said with brilliant eyes. “I believe I’ll cut off my hair 
and go as — as a First Musician. I could get that position 
I know — couldn’t I ? They’re paid fifteen dollars a month 

— I saw it in the paper — two of ’em to every regiment. 
I’ll enlist with yours, Nathan. The musicians wear red 
coats with white linings and turnbacks, and a white worsted 
plume in their caps. Don’t you think that would be becom¬ 
ing to me, sir ? Don’t you think I’d make a fine figure of a 
soldier ?” She paraded up and down the room with an erect 
and martial carriage, blowing on an imaginary trumpet, and 
casting provoking side-glances at him, until Burke caught 
and kissed her on her pretty mouth conveniently puckered 
for the trumpet-blowing. The young gentleman had gone 
a good way from his original post of tremulous suppliant, 
it will be observed. I do not think Mary encouraged him; 
she submitted to his caresses without any vulgar scuffling, 
yet without returning them. And if Burke felt vaguely 
that a little more warmth in her smile or eyes would have 
somehow seemed more natural or gratifying, he yet admired 
her very coolness and self-command. He liked her the better 
for it, he told himself; and, at any rate, he was the only 
man she had ever cared for — she said so. And no one had 
ever kissed her before no ! 

The declaration of war and subsequent action of Congress 
in voting men and means occasioned no flurry on the New 
York Stock Exchange — so Burke heard from old Mr. Marsh 

— yet the excitement all over the country was now blazing 
high. All kinds of rumors spread from the seat of war. 
Arista was retreating with his forces cut to pieces; Arista 
was a prisoner, with General La Vega and their families, 
and they were already on their way to New Orleans; Santa 
Anna had been put in command and was advancing ; Taylor 
was fortified at Matamoros; Taylor had gone to Saltillo 
with the army. Private letters from officers who had been 
in the fight at Palo Alto began to pour in; Burke heard 
many such read aloud by somebody standing on a chair 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


327 


above the crowd in the bar-room, or coffee-house. “. . . 
Their dinners were on the fire, cooking, and answered for 
ours. . . .” “ . . . Our battalion followed at a run in 

pursuit six miles to the ferry. ...” “ The Mexican muskets 

were all marked George IV or Rex, Tower— ” 

“Good Gracious!” ejaculates Nat, thinking of his own 
respectable heirloom hanging over the chimney-piece at 
Mrs. Slaney’s. 

“Poor Ringgold was buried to-day with all the honors of 
war. It’s a dreadful loss to the service. The wound was in the 
groin; when he fell he called out, ‘Never mind me, boys! Go 
ahead !’ . . . “The general behaved most gallantly. In 
the second battle he was more exposed than any one else; 
and there he sat part of the time giving his orders with his leg 
cocked over the pommel of the saddle. ...” The reader 
has to stop for the cheering. Hurrah for old Rough-and- 
Ready! Three times three! 

The enlistments were so heavy at all the various points in 
our State that before long it became a matter of great anxiety 
amongst all these brave lads as to who was to be allowed to 
go. Ohio was called upon for only three regiments; and 
though that would amount to nearly three thousand men, it 
was evident the applicants would exceed that number. 
Somebody would have to stay at home — distracting 
thought! The war would be over in a few months, weeks 
perhaps — it might be over now, for that matter — and the 
one chance of the century would be lost! Of course, the 
militiaman, having, presumably, already had some prac¬ 
tice in drill and the handling of weapons, would be preferred 
to the detached youth with a taste for adventure and no 
experience. To be sure he could enlist in the United States 
Army for the regular term of years; but, generally speaking, 
he didn’t want to do that. If he happened to be or think 
himself a gentleman, he naturally would choose the volunteer 
service and a chance by some wire-pulling to get himself 
an officer’s commission, rather than serve his country as £ 
plain private. From this arose dire worry; yet Burke held 
on his way undisturbed in a certainty that it would not fall 
to his lot to be among the siftings. The process, by the way, 
appeared to go neither by justice nor by favor nor anything 
but blind luck. Two men were desirous of working in the field; 


328 


NATHAN BURKE 


the one was taken and the other left, nobody knew why, 
least of all, apparently, those who made the selection. The 
German companies were declined on account of the inability 
of the rank and file to understand English — a great mistake, 
to Burke’s notion. They would have learned soon enough, 
and were the very stuff for soldiers, — sturdy, patriotic, and 
with an instinctive appreciation of the value of discipline 
and massed strength. Nat was not disappointed; he and his 
company, and Captain Walworth with his, and the Mont¬ 
gomery Guards in a body were drafted into the First Ohio 
very shortly after their arrival at Camp Washington, outside 
of Cincinnati, where the volunteers from all over the State had 
their rendezvous; Mitchell was their colonel, a West Point 
man. 

But before that momentous event took place, we had six 
weeks of frenzied preparation. Nothing further appeared 
to be happening on the Rio Grande, but the popular fever 
did not abate. Biographies of Taylor, of Scott, — who was 
at this time in Washington, doing a great deal of talking and 
writing, — of Kearny and Doniphan, of Brown, who had so 
gallantly defended his poor little fort (a successor, but vic¬ 
torious, to Crockett. Hurrah! Remember the Alamo!), of 
Ringgold and Thornton, came out at least once a week in the 
papers. Generals Wool and Worth passed through on their 
way to their commands. A Colonel Croghan was appointed 
inspector-general of the volunteer troops. “Croghan? 
That must be Tittle Georgie’s’ son,” said Burke to himself. 
There were yard-long lists of the presidential commissions 
issued every day; exact and most prolix instructions as to 
the organization and equipment of the regiments. If we 
were privates, we were to get forty rounds of ammunition 
and two flints apiece served out to us at the United States 
Army depot at Baton Rouge, when we passed there on our way 
to New Orleans and the Gulf. If officers, like our friends 
Captain Burke and Lieutenant Ducey, we were to wear a 
dark blue cloth coat with two rows of silver or plated buttons 
(minutely described), with a standing collar, a plain round 
cuff, 2 loops 4^- inches long on each side of the collar-opening, 
etc. We had to have winter trousers of light-blue mixture 
cloth and summer ditto of white linen or cotton. A black 
beaver cap 7| inches high with a patent-leather band and 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


329 


peak was prescribed for our heads ; we were allowed our 
choice of a black leather or silk stock, and of ankle or “Jef¬ 
ferson” style boots. George Ducey could have recited all 
these details in his sleep; if getting ready could make a 
soldier of a man, George would have been the best that ever 
went in shoes — ankle or Jefferson! I am sure there was 
not in our whole regiment, State, or army a better-dressed 
or more dashing volunteer, or a more ferocious enemy of 
Mexico. He let his mustache grow, and presented so fierce 
and warlike an appearance in our streets that he was notice¬ 
able even in this excited time. Mrs. Ducey, without a 
doubt, spent her days in planning impossible comforts for 
his kit, and her nights in weeping over the dark future. I 
fear nobody else viewed George’s departure with a very keen 
regret; he was not popular even in that fashionable circle 
of which he was so distinguished an ornament, and if people 
respected the spirit he displayed in enlisting, they none the 
less wondered at it in George Ducey. It was natural enough 
that he should have joined the militia and decked himself 
with epaulets and flourished a sword in the late piping times 
of peace; but Burke, remembering certain not altogether 
heroic scenes in which George had borne a leading part, 
was privately a good deal amused and scornful. “He thinks 
he’ll come back a brigadier-general at the very least,” Nat 
said to Sharpless, laughing; “it takes much hardtack and 
cold bacon and sore feet and sleeping in the open — to say 
nothing of a few other desirable qualifications — to make 
a brigadier-general, I guess. And somehow I don’t see 
George on the march and in the camp any more than I see 
him on the pitched field for that matter. But he’s a curious 
mixture — you never can tell.” 

“Huh!” Jim grunted. He disdained to canvass George’s 
prospects; but remarked after a moment’s silence: “You 
talk like an old stager, Nat. Anybody might think you’d 
made a dozen campaigns.” 

“I think it’s born in me,” Burke said. “It’s not so much 
that I used to camp out and follow the trail so often with 
Darnell when I was a boy, and listen to his wild old stories — 
it’s not that, though that must have something to do with it. 
It’s something else — it’s in the blood, I think. There’s 
an old bartered ex-army-sergeant — that is, he says he was 


330 


NATHAN BURKE 


a sergeant — in our quartermaster’s department that 1 
watched for a while the other day, trying to show one of the 
men how to pack a mule — the man boggling along with 
everything sliding all over, camp-kettle one way, coffee-mill 
the other, in a terrible mess — mule backing and sidling — 
sergeant swearing fit to raise your hair! I went out and 
roped the whole business up tolerably shipshape in a minute 
or two. I don’t know that it would have stayed very long 
on the march, but the sergeant was tremendously compli¬ 
mentary. 4 You’ve seen service before, sir, I reckon,’ says he, 
I’ve been used to horses and harness since I was a little tad, 
you know — I’m kind of handy with ’em. Perhaps I’ve got 
a long string of barbarous ancestors, trappers, hunters, rough- 
and-ready soldiers — God He knows who or what they were. 
If the governor doesn’t take us, I’ll enlist with some body of 
riflemen in the regular service. I shoot better with a rifle 
than with this pistol we have to carry. But I think probably 
we’ll be taken.” 

It was a warm June night, the night before we marched, 
when Mr.— mercy, I beg his pardon! — when Captain 
Burke delivered himself of these beliefs, sitting with his 
friend, and smoking a last pipe together in their room, one 
on either side of the window with their heels on the sill. 
Nat’s portmanteau had already gone forward with the com¬ 
pany luggage; there on a chair lay his uniform neatly folded, 
his sword stood in the corner. The day before, gallantly 
arrayed, he and the seventy-odd men of his command had 
marched out to the Ducey home; and there before the 
front porch, where the customary summer crop of young 
ladies bloomed in pretty organdies and swisses, drawn up at 
“parade rest, ” with their captain in the van, a brave show of 
blue coats and white trousers (linen or cotton), they had 
received a beautiful flag embroidered and bullion-fringed, 
presented by the Ladies’ Aid Society of Trinity Church 
through Miss Frances Blake. Francie could hardly hold 
upright the big staff with its weight of drooping banner ; she 
was very much agitated, spoke in a low, tremulous voice, 
and may have forgot the most of her speech, for all that 
Burke heard of it was the single sentence: “Captain, in con¬ 
sideration of your distinguished valor and patriotism, we 
present you this flag,” with which the emblem was handed 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


331 


over to him. The valorous and patriotic captain himself 
was somewhat confused, and the few words he managed 
to stammer out bore no slightest resemblance either to what 
he had meant to say, or to the magnificently appropriate 
sentiment credited to him by the morning paper: “So long 
as life nerved his arm, or his heart beat high with hope, that 
flag should never be disgraced!” You may see it this mo¬ 
ment, rolled up and ticketed with a score of others behind 
glass doors in the collection at the State House. After the 
solemnity was over, we broke ranks, and officers and men 
“partook of an elegant collation,” served by the flounced 
and ribboned regiment themselves; there were lemonade and 
rich cakes and coffee and jellies and frozen creams, and a 
great deal of hospitality and brave smiling, and, I dare say, 
some aching hearts. When Jim said that Miss Blake looked 
like an angel, Burke acquiesced heartily if a little absently; 
he was thinking of his own angel, who had been there, too, 
wearing a garnet brooch and ear-rings which the young 
fellow had given her, and looking very fresh and sprightly 
in spite of the anxiety she must have felt for him. Mary was 
braver than most women, he thought; she had a spirit like 
that of Rebecca in “Ivanhoe.” Nevertheless, he liked to 
think that she had shed a few tears against his gilt buttons 
when he had held her tight at their final parting an hour 
ago — but had she ? She had stoutly told him she was re¬ 
solved not to be foolish. Mrs. Sharpless, on the other hand, 
who was fond of him, and of a firm will too, had broken down 
and sniffed and sobbed. And now, as they sat together, Jim 
broke a long silence by saying with something of an effort: — 

“I suppose, Nat, if I were a Christian, I should say, ‘God 
bless you F” 

“The wish is the same — no difference what words you 
say it in, it seems to me,” said Burke. 

And they sat for another long while in silence, each think¬ 
ing, no doubt, that all our belief, and all our religion, and all 
our hope of immortality comes to no more than this in the 
end: “Oh, remember me a little when the grass is green over 
me! Think of me sometimes kindly!” 

The next day our volunteers marched. It was early, but 
the town turned out to see them go, and the sidewalks were 


332 


NATHAN BURKE 


packed and there was vigorous cheering. The sun winked 
on the window-panes, where all the green-painted shutters 
were flung back, and many heads thrust forth; there were 
more ribbons and white skirts on the balconies and porches; 
the little old-fashioned hundred-leaf roses were in multitudi¬ 
nous bloom above the white palings. Market-wagons and 
drovers pulled up at the crossings as the troops marched by; 
the maids hanging out clothes in the yards or scrubbing steps 
dropped everything and ran to the street. Children tumbled 
out of bed with their frowzy heads and small night-dresses; 
people jumped up from the breakfast table and left the coffee¬ 
pot cooling. Here they come! Rub-a-dub-dub, the drum 
— and likewise tweedle-eedle-eedle, the fife! “The Girl I 
Left Behind Me!” There is a kind of heart-breaking gayety 
about this old tune. Here they come, very fresh, natty, and 
jaunty, very young, strong, and light-hearted, very confident 
of fame, honors, rewards, and — the girl I left behind me! 
Rub-a-dub-dub — tweedle-eedle — ee! That stout young¬ 
ster in the front rank with his flushed face, his eager eyes, 
with all his visions of war and conquest, Arabian Nights 
palaces, senoritas Mejicanas, perhaps — dear me, why not ? 
We didn’t all leave girls behind us! — that boy died of a 
sunstroke the day after we landed. I have forgot his name; 
we buried him there in the sand at Brazos Santiago, and the 
sea is very loud above his grave. That other young fellow 
with the ploughman walk, carrying our new flag so proudly 
with his white cotton gloves wrinkling off his finger-ends, 
and the perspiration glimmering in all the creases of his 
honest sunburnt neck — he got a shot in the throat and fell 
just in front of me that time we charged the Tenerfa; he 
came from my part of the country, some relation of old Pas- 
coe, I think. Hurrah, hurrah! Good-by, Jack; good-by, 
Jill! It’s forty years since you parted, may you rest well! 
Old Nat Burke will go and smoke a pipe in the chimney- 
corner; and having seen War, will thank his God for Peace. 

One young person rose early with the rest of the world 
that morning; but, evading the others of her family, ran 
away and reached a corner where she posted herself at the 
top of a flight of steps, alongside a worthy Irish body who had 
just been engaged with a pail and broom in sluicing them 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 


333 


down. “It’s lookin’ f’r y’r swatehearrt ye’ll be afther?” she 
said sympathetically; “well, it’s nayther chick n’r child I’ve 
got among thim poor byes, but I feel sorry f’r thim just th’ 
same,” and indeed she wept profusely and adjured the Vir¬ 
gin as they came by. The young person said nothing; her 
eyes ached as she scanned the lines — the Montgomery 
Guards — the Harrison Grays — Captain Walworth on 
horseback — Captain Burke marching at the head of his 
men. He did not look around; he did not see her; and pres¬ 
ently the sound of the music died away. 


PART II 


CHAPTER I 
The Mail-Bag 

The Hon’ble Samuel Gwynne to 

Messrs. Wylie & Slemm, 

Cincinnati, Ohio. 

July 15, 1846 

Messrs. Wylie & Slemm, 

Gentlemen : 

Your letter of the 13th. inst. has been rec’d. In reply I 
beg to state that I have known a Mr. Nathan Burke of this 
city for some years, and while I am not acquainted with the 
place or circumstances of his birth, or the names of his par¬ 
ents, I believe him to be the young man about whom you 
inquire, as there is no other Nathan Burke to my knowledge 
in our city. 

Mr. Burke is now, I should judge, about twenty-five years 
of age — which corresponds with your conjecture — and has 
probably lived here upwards of ten years, being engaged for 
the last four in the practice of Law. Previous to that — as 
you correctly state — he studied for a year or more in my 
office, which I' may say without undue complacency, has 
always been open to honest and ambitious talent, however 
poor or modest its externals. Mr. Burke appeared to me to 
possess in a marked degree, prudence, integrity and good 
sense; he bears the best of reputations in our community. 
Although unable to furnish them myself, I do not doubt that 
the details of his earlier years will be easily discoverable; 
your sources of information seem to be unusually reliable, 
and the young man’s whole life, I am confident, has been 
passed in this section of the country. 

Respectfully, 


334 



THE MAIL-BAG 


335 


(copy) 

Archer Lewis, Esq., to 

Captain N. Burke 
First Regmt. O. V. I. 

Point Isabel, Mexico. July 15, ’46 

Dear Burke, 

The enclosed letter 1 came into the office this morning; 
and though it is marked private I opened it according to our 
agreement. I hadn’t gone very far, of course, before I saw 
that it was of a strictly personal nature; and not knowing ex¬ 
actly how important it might be to you, took a copy for safety 
and future reference, and am now forwarding the original. 
Also wrote Messrs Wylie & Slemm explaining your where¬ 
abouts, and that I myself couldn’t give them any reliable 
information, beyond the fact that your mother’s maiden- 
name was certainly Mary Granger, as they themselves seem 
to know already; and wound up by referring them to Pascoe 
and Williams as the only people I knew of who would be 
likely to remember your family or could speak with any 
sort of authority about your mother and father. Afterwards 
up at the Court-House this afternoon, I met McCormick and 
Townley whom you recall — they are both up here on cases 
— and another Cincinnati man named Hammond, editor of 
the “Gazette,” I think, and put a few inquiries about the 
firm of Wylie & Slemm, thinking they were all men actively 
engaged in business and likely to know everybody; but none 
of them knew anything about W. & S. It’s funny, if they had 
been a month or so more forehanded with their questions they 
might have caught you at Camp Washington when you were 
there with the troops. They seem to be rather mysterious 
and secretive, judging from the tone of their letter. If you 
find you’re the long-lost heir to the earldom, like the fellows 
in Scott, don’t get shot without making your will first and 
remembering your humble friends and business associates. 

All well and everything as usual in the old town. I saw 
Her on the street the other day, but only to bow to; she 
looked all right. 

Faithfully yours, 

A. B. Lewis. 

1 Neither the original letter nor copy could be found; they were 
probably destroyed. — M. S. W. 


336 


NATHAN BURKE 


James Sharpless, Esq., to 

Captain N. Burke July 20, 1846. 

Dear Nat, 

Your last letter dated at New Orleans the fifth finally 
arrived, looking footsore and weary a couple of days ago; 
and Miss F. B. to whom I showed it that very evening, re¬ 
marked tremulously that, Thank Heaven, he wasn't shot 
yet! which, considering that you haven't been exposed so 
far to any fire more dangerous than that of your own pistol 
with which you are esteemed a pretty handy man, seemed to 
me touching but uncalled-for. Still, it's a very pleasant 
thing, Nathan, to think that some woman is anxious and glad 
and relieved about you — heigh-ho! A very pleasant thing 
indeed! You’ll make war and your foes you’ll conquer, ven¬ 
geance for your wrongs obtaining — like our friend Rinaldo ; 
and then you will come home and Mary will crown you with 
laurels, and how grand will be your mien, N. Burke, with a 
crown of greenery perched above your long nose! Just now, 
however, the chances for acquiring wounds and glory in 
Mexico seem to be growing slimmer every day; Taylor is 
motionless on the Rio Grande, we hear; Scott, whose pen is 
so much mightier than his sword, continues to fulminate at 
Washington; and people up here are beginning to grumble 
that both generals are sacrificing a Mexican in the hand, so 
to speak, for a Presidency in the bush — a great injustice, 
most probably, to each man, but the public must have its 
say. What's a democratic form of government for unless 
you can abuse those in authority ? Aren't we paying our 
army and our generals ? Well, then, we're going to say what 
we d—n please about 'em! Cock-a-doodle-doo-oo — oo! 
Although we are all master-tacticians nowadays, capable of 
telling Taylor exactly what to do in these present and any 
other circumstances, still I have a kind of lurking suspicion 
that the old man knows his trade, and has good reasons for 
his inaction; I think he is the last man in the world to neglect 
his business for politics. And as for Scott he cannot help 
writing copiously any more than he can help breathing, and 
that unfortunate “plate of soup" has dished his chances for 
the Presidency anyhow. What on earth possessed him? 
The fellow has no sense of humor; he may “step out of the 
office for a hasty plate of soup" at dinner-time as often as 


THE MAIL-BAG 


337 


he chooses, but he ought not to leave that information in a 
note lying on. his desk; he might know if the newspapers 
ever got hold of it the country would never get through 
laughing at it. You hear nothing now but “hasty plates” 
of hash, ‘hasty plates” of pork-and-beans, “hasty plates” 
of apple-pie, “hasty plates” of everything under the sun. 
It's astonishing that a man of real ability and a proved soldier 
should show himself once in a while such a self-important 
donkey. And after all the rumpus there may be no more 
fighting, and Taylor will come home bringing his Palo-Alto 
sheaves with him, and run for the Presidency on either ticket, 
as they say he is perfectly willing to do; and the gallant 
First Ohios may be disbanded without striking a lick; and 
Captain Burke may have to beat his sword into a ploughshare 
— alas! And everything will go on the same jog-trot as 
before. 

No, not quite the same, for something rather out-of-the 
way has just come to pass, and there may be a sequel to it. 
As I sat here the other day, muddling over a translation of 
“Persicos odi,” and against my own will twisting the verse 
into all manner of grotesqueries after the style of Hosea 
Bigelow — 


“Ez fer Persians — wa’al, I never 
Took much stock in ’em, my son. 

Foolin' round with wreaths forever, 

When they'd orter git th' chores done! 

Whut I say is: let th' roses 
Go — they cost a sight o' money. 

Wear yer old blue jeans — them cloze is 
Sootable, ef they ain't toney—" 

As I sat meditating these brilliant lines, I say, there came a 
coughing and shuffling at the door, and presently a hesitat¬ 
ing knock, on top of which and in response to my invitation 
there walked in a gentleman dressed, sure enough, in jeans, 
pantaloons tucked into the tops of his rather massive boots, 
a plaid velveteen waistcoat with gilt buttons, a bottle-green 
cloth coat creased a dozen ways like a folding-map, a black 
satin neck-scarf sprinkled with spots about the size and color 
of so many rings of hard-boiled egg, encircling a shirt-collar 


338 


NATHAN BURKE 


wilted to a string; and, finally, a buckeye hat. Do you recog¬ 
nize the wearer of this costume? You ought to. That I 
did not at first is, after all, not very surprising, as I have only 
seen him once or twice in my whole life, and never in such a 
glory of Sunday clothes. 

“Mister Sharpies,” said the apparition, pronouncing my 
name thus — as a good many do, for that matter — and then, 
seeing, doubtless, that I was quite at a loss, he explained: 
“My name's Williams — ’Liph. I guess you’ve heerd Nat 
Burke talk ’bout me — you’re one of his best friends, ain’t 
you ? ” 

“Oh — why — of course — take a seat, Mr. Williams, take 
a seat. Er — um — you know, I suppose, that Burke’s 
not here — he’s gone to Mexico with the army — of course 
you knew that,” said I, in some confusion, and wondering 
mightily what Mr. Williams’ errand with me could possibly 
be. For he had the air of having something to communi¬ 
cate; and, indeed, he began at once, very simply and directly, 
and not without a slight look of worry. 

“Mister Sharpies, I jest thort, bein’’s I was to town any¬ 
way [I am repeating his own words as nearly as I can re¬ 
member] I jest thort I’d drop erround to see you ’bout some¬ 
thin’ thet come up th’ other day — somethin’ ’bout Nat. I 
went over to Mister Lewises, but he wa’n’t at th’ office, ’n’ 
I ain’t got time to wait. I dunno ez you er any uv Nat’s 
friends in th’ city knows — mebbe you’ve heerd already — 
but they’s some lawyer fellers — at least to say they’s one 
lawyer-feller — come up from Cincinnati, ’n’ they’re rakin’ 
th’ kentry with a fine-tooth-comb fer to fin’ Nat, er his 
fambly, er somebody that knows somethin’ ’bout ’em. 
Name uv Slemm, kinder tall man with a leetle cast in one 
eye, ’n’ a big seal-ring. Hez he ben here? Cuz ef he has , 
why, o’ course, you know all about it anyway.” 

I told him no, that I had not met nor heard of any such 
person inquiring about you, whereat he wagged his head 
sagely, not ill-pleased, I think, to be the purveyor of this 
interesting news, albeit his good-hearted anxiety about you. 
“Wa’al,” he said, ruminating, “mebbe he ain’t got erround 
to you yet, er mebbe he^ain’t figurin’ on seein’ you at all, ’s 
long ’s you can’t know much of anythin’ ’bout Nat’s folks 
anyhow. Fact is, ye see, Nat ain’t got any folks to mention. 


THE MAIL-BAG 


339 


’N’ you’ve only knowed him sence he settled in town. But he 
said right out — this here feller, this Slemm did, I mean — 
thet he’d wrote to Mister Lewis, ’n’ Mister Lewis had re¬ 
ferred him to me. That’s how-come he come to see me. 
Don’t ye chaw, Mr. Sharpies? I got a plug here’t’ I’d be glad 
fer ye to take of.” 

I don’t chaw and so declined; whereupon ’Liph, feeling 
evidently that he had conformed to all the conventions, 
whittled off a comforting hunk, and got it into his mouth 
before he answered my question. 

“ You say this Mr. Slemm went out to see you at the farm, 
to ask about Nathan?” 

He nodded. “Druv out in a liv’ry buggy ’n’ horse he’d 
hired right down here at th’ corner,” he said circumstantially. 
“ Kinder dressed-up, slick-talking feller, y’know, Mister 
Sharpies — I dunno, uv course, mebbe he’s all right, but he 
pretty nigh asked too many questions fer me. I don’t mind 
folks bein’ cur’us, but not so all-fired cur’us ez he was. Ye 
see—” and here he assumed an expression of profound 
shrewdness and worldly wisdom—“seems like, fer all he 
was so close-mouthed — ’bout everythin’ but his questions, 
thet is — we got th’ idee, her ’n’ I did —” 

“Her?” said I, stupidly enough. 

“Yes, her — my wife, y’know,” he explained, staring a 
little. “We got th’ idee thet they was somethin’ ’bout 
proputty mixed up in it — somethin’ thet Nat’s father’s er 
mother’s folks might uv owned, er mebbe didn’t own, but 
jest took, like they sometimes did long back in th’ early times, 
y’know, ’n’ mebbe somebody’s goin’ ter come on Nat fer it, 
someway er other ’n’ jest regularly law th’ poor young feller 
out uv his boots.. I’ve heerd uv things like that happenin’ — 
law’s tricky, ye know,” he waved a vague comprehensive 
gesture. “’N’ I sorter think somebody had orter let Nat 
know — f’r instance you could write to him, couldn’t you ? 
You know where to write to, so’d he’d be sure to git it.” 

“Why, certainly, Mr. Williams,” said I. “But I really 
don’t think it’s necessary. If these people have already 
applied to Mr. Lewis, who is a lawyer himself, and in charge 
of Burke’s affairs, it seems to me everything must be all 
right. Lewis would hardly have sent them to you or been 
willing to help them at all otherwise.” 


340 


NATHAN BURKE 


“ Wa’l, he’s jest a young feller same ez Nat is — same ez 
you air — ’n’ more ’n likely he don’t suspicion what they’re 
up to,” said ’Liph — and I saw his features settling into that 
look of immovable, iron-bound, rock-riveted distrust which 
seems peculiar to honest slow wits; it was plain to me some¬ 
thing or somebody must have made a very unfavorable or 
disturbing impression on Mr. Williams. “ Whatever ’tis, 
I don’t want ter stick in, ’n’ mebbe make trouble fer Nat. 
He’d ought ter to be wrote to right off —” 

“Well, but he has been told, ten to one,” I urged. “If 
all this is of any importance, Lewis has undoubtedly written 
him already; and you and I know that Nathan is pretty well 
able to take care of himself. Now I don’t think you need to 
worry, Mr. Williams —” 

He went steadily on, as if I hadn’t said a word! “ Nat had 
ought to be wrote to right off” he said firmly and judicially, 
“I ain’t very handy writin’ myself, ’n’ I dunno ez I c’ld git 
it all down first ’n’ last, so’s he c’ld make it out. I want Nat 
ter know that me nor Lincly hadn’t any notion uv blabbin’ 
erround ’bout him ’n’ his folks, ’n’ th’ minute we made out 
what Slemm was after, we shet right up, ’n’ he never got 
another thing out’n ary one or other uv us. But they was 
one thing happened I’m sorry fer — dretful sorry — only it 
couldn’t ’a’ ben helped hardly. Ye see this Slemm feller 
cornin’ up in his buggy with all th’ style he put on, ’n’ th’ 
dogs a-runnin’ out ’n’ yoppin’ the way dogs does, ’n’ him 
steppin’ erround so grand ’n’ flourishin’ off his hat, ’n’ then 
settin’ down ’n’ squarin’ himself off, ’n’ beginnin’ with his 
string uv questions, why, he got ev’body erround th’ place 
kinder worked up. ’N’ they was three-four uv th’ childern 
hangin’ erround like childern will, ter watch him, ’n’ they 
made a kinder racket ’n’ upsettin’ in th’ house, ’n th’ first 
thing you know they’d got Maw waked up. She’s goin’ on 
ninety years old, ye know, Mr. Sharpies, ’n’ she kin see pretty 
good still, but she’s feeble, ’n’ next-door to stone-deef. Why, 
ord’nar’ly you might fire off a cannon right beside her, ’n’ 
she wouldn’t even turn her head; she’ll sleep right through 
the almightiest ragin’ thunder-storm you ever see, jest ez 
ca’m ez a baby! ’N’ here she went ’n’ waked up with jest a 
leetle bit uv noise like she’s ben used to ev’ry day uv her life! 
I dunno why it is old people air so everlastin’ pernicketty. 


THE MAIL-BAG 


341 


Hey? No, she ain’t my mother — she’s her mother. Her 
name’s Darce. She’d ben settin’ in her big chair kinder all 
humped up, ’n’ not payin’ no ’tention, same ez she always is, 
when Slemm he come in, ’n’ she never even looked up, at first. 
But ez I was sayin’ when she did wake up, she sorter beckoned- 
to Mary Ann thet she always unnerstan’s better’n anybody 
else, somehow, ’n’ sez, ‘ What is it ? What did yer paw say ? ’ 
‘He’s talkin’ ter th’ strange man, Gram’maw!’ sez little 
Mary Ann, a-yellin’ — ye got ter yell to make her hear, 
y’know. ‘What strange man? What’s his name?’ ‘I 
don’t guess he’s got any name — he didn’t say,’ sez Mary 
Anne, jest like a child. ’N’ thet made Slemm laugh. ‘ Wa’al, 
what’s he want anyhow?’ sez Maw, jest pre-bent ’n’ deter¬ 
mined like old people git oncet in a while, on findin’ out all 
’bout everythin’ thet’s goin’ on, ’n’ havin’ a finger in th’ pie; 
seems like they jest nachelly can’t bear to set back ’n’ give 
up. ‘I dunno what he wants,’ sez Mary Anne, kinder fright¬ 
ened, with th’ strange man lookin’ at her, ’n’ everybody 
listenin’, ’n’ her maw makin’ a face at her to quit ’n’ keep 
quiet. ‘I dunno’ sez pore little Mary Ann, ready to cry. 
‘He’s askin’ ’bout somebody — somebody named Nathan, 

I dunno who it is.’ Ye see, Mary Ann, she ain’t hardly 
ever seen Nat; she was borned after he went away. ‘Na¬ 
than who? Nathan Granger? Tell him he’s dead — least- 
ways I mind somebody sayin’ he was dead. He must be old 
’nuff ter die anyhow. I ain’t seen him in years. We come 
over th’ mountains tergether ’long back, ’n’ I ain’t seen him 
sence—’ ‘ What /’ sez Slemm jest like that. ‘What!’ sez 

he, 1 Nathan Granger!’ ’N-’ he moved over ’n’ set down 
’longside uv Maw. ‘This is very interestin’,’ sez he in thet 
slick way he has. ‘You say you come over th’ Alleghenies 
with other pioneers, ma’am—’ ‘Fer th’ Lord’s sake, 
mister’ sez I, ‘don’t git th’ old woman started — not on thet 
mountain-trip anyhow. It’ll rip th’ throat out uv ye to 
talk to her, ’n’ she don’t know nothin’ but ol’ times, anyhow. 
She fergits what happened this week mebbe, ’n’ she’ll talk to 
ye by th’ hour ’bout things thet happened fifty years ago 
when she was young.’ He looked real pleased! ‘Ye don’t 
say!’ sez he, kinder smilin’. ‘Well, now, thet’s jest what I’d 
like first-rate to hear about,’ sez he sorter settlin’ down. 
’N’, Mr. Sharpies, durned ef he didn’t set there ’n’ holler at 


342 


NATHAN BURKE 


Maw fer close on to two hours! I’ll bet th’ pore old woman 
ain’t had sech a good time sence she useter be right spry an’ 
go erround ter lay folks out ’n’ funerals ’n’ sech.’” 

He went on to say that by this dauntless pertinacity, Mr. 
Slemm — for whom I began to have some sympathy in his 
task! — finally got out of old Mrs. Darce all she could remem¬ 
ber about Nathan Granger. They had met in the early days 
of emigration to’these settlements; they didn’t come from 
the same place. Her folks was Connecticut; she didn’t 
know where Granger hailed from, except that it was up 
NcrTh somewheres, up to Canady. She heard once long back 
a good while thet Granger he’d died of th’ fever down to 
Muskingum County; she c’ld hev’ asked his darter ’bout it, 
but somehow she never thort to. They wan’t any Grangers 
left erroun’ anywheres thet she knew of. Yes, oh yes, 
Nathan Granger he hed childern — she couldn’t jest say how 
many, er whether they was boys or girls, er what became of 
’em. All excep’ that pore little Mary Granger, her that 
married John Burke, that is. John Burke he come an’ 
settled right here on th’ Scioty, and his wife she died inside 
th’ year, when th’ baby was born. It was awful cold bein’ 
th’ first o’ th’ year, ’n’ ’peared like she was jest clean tuckered 
out, ’n’ couldn’t nachelly stand any more; she died day er 
two after the baby come. Mrs. Darce helped nurse her and 
laid her out. She wanted th’ baby sh’ld be named Nathan, 
so they done it. Then John Burke he died — he got 
drownded giggin’ fer fish through th’ ice that winter they 
hed th’ big freeze. 

It was at this point that the indefatigable Slemm, man 
of many devices, led the conversation back to the original 
topic by inquiring if Granger had any means — owned 
property hereabouts, for instance — which seems to have 
been one of the questions that somehow aroused ’Liph’s 
suspicions. However, the results were rather meagre. Mrs. 
Darce remembered hearing him or somebody else say that 
th’ Gov’ment had give him land somewheres — mebbe ’twas 
in Franklin County — she couldn’t say. ’Twan’t up in th’ 
Western Reserve, though — she appears to have been very 
decided about that — ’cuz he hadn’t fit in th’ Revolution, or 
if he had, ’twan’t fer th’ States, ’twas fer th’ Britishers. 
’Twas only them that fit fer th’ States that got th’ land give 


THE MAIL-BAG 


343 


’em up in th’ Reserve, yeh know. No, she didn’t know where 
he meant to settle — didn’t know nothin’ ’bout Granger’s 
business. She never was no great hand to ask questions— 
some folks was, but she wan’t ever. She remembered 
Granger pertickler becuz although he was a young man, not 
more’n forty — (“Forty seems mighty young to her, ye know, 
mister,” said’Liph apologetically)— his hair wasgittin’ white 
all over. Also he was a tumble good shot with a rifle — she 
never seen anybody thet c’ld shoot ekal to Granger ’less’n it 
was Jake Darnell. Might ask him, ef yeh wanted to know 
’bout Granger er Burke — he knew ’em both. Oh, yes, 
she’d plumb fergot Jake was dead — she fergot, times. 
“ Lindy, where’s my pipe ? ” “ Maw, she got real peevish ’n’ 

tired out herself, ’fore he got done with her,” ’Liph remarked. 

And so down goes the curtain on old Mrs. Darce and the 
inquiry. This was what Williams was so painfully anxious 
for you to know, and I undertook to write you the entire 
story. I pointed out, to quiet him, that Slemm might have 
exactly the opposite object from what ’Liph suspected — that 
he might be trying to establish some claim to an estate, or to 
get a what-d’ye-call-’em? — an instrument to quiet a title. 
But ’Liph shook his head gloomily — and, frankly, it seems 
to me his distrust of Slemm cannot be wholly due to a bucolic 
wariness; the man’s manner must have contributed more or 
less to rousing that feeling. I should dislike to see you 
lawed out of your boots, Nat. It’s a ridiculous prejudice, of 
course, but personally I feel an inclination to look askant 
on these fellows with smooth, insipid names such as — as 
Slemm, for instance. There’s Slaney — he’s an example! 

This is a fatiguing long letter for you to wade through, 
but I promised Williams. Duty performed is a rainbow in 
the soul! Indeed, most of our letters here can only interest 
you because they are from home; the town is dull; we look 
to you for the real news. But somehow I can’t get the late 
lamented Mr. Granger and his youthful white head, and his 
prowess with the rifle, out of my mind. Do you know that, 
before you left, I noticed that you were getting quite gray at 
the temples? And as for your rifle-shooting — “eye sartain 
— finger lightning — aim death!” as was observed of Mr. 
Leatherstocking Bumppo, whose name was Nat, too, by the 
way. 




344 


NATHAN BURKE 


It is three o’clock in the morning, and I am falling asleep 
as you will have judged already by some of this drivel. 
Good-bye. 

Affectionately, 


Jim. 


Lieutenant George Ducey to his mother 

Camp on the Rio Grande, Aug. ’46 

My Dear Mother, 

We marched up here last week to a place on the river- 
bank which is opposite a little dog-hole of a Mexican town 
called Burrito, that is donkey in Spanish . 1 I, for one, am 
mighty glad to get out of the camp at the Boca del Rio, the 
mouth of the river you know, which was an awful hole worse 
than this, hot and muddy and the biggest mosquitos you 
ever saw — regular gally-nippers. I went myself to ever 
so many of the commanding officers and told them in my 
opinion we ought to be moved, but nothing was done for 
quite a while. And I must say that I was very much surprised 
to find out what sort of people our highest officers are — noth¬ 
ing but rough, common men, without the least education or 
manners. When I saw Colonel Twiggs he had a two-days’ 
beard, and swore fit to raise your hair every other word. 
Yet they’ve made him a brigadeer-general. This is suposed 
to be a much healthier place than our camp at the Boca; 
but we never would have got up here if the regimental 
doctors had not told Taylor that he must move us to another 
camp mucho pronto, just as I had suggested, or all the men 
would be too enferma to fight. We are a little more com¬ 
fortable here. You couldn’t get any washing done at the 
Boca for love or money, but I’ve found a muchacha here 
(that is one of the native women, you know) who took my 
shirts and did them up tolerably well, though not as they 
would have been done at home. I carefully explained to 
her how to starch them in Spanish, but she seemed to be 
very stupid, and just wouldn’t understand a single palabra. 
A palabra is a word, you know. I expect I ought to apollo- 
gize for using Spanish to you, but I simply can’t help it. 
I picked it up right away, and have got into the habit so 

1 Lieutenant Ducey’s information, like his spelling, will be found 
somewhat inaccurate. — Ed. 


THE MAIL-BAG 


345 


sometimes I’m afraid I’ll forget my English. Everybody 
says it’s wonderful how quick I learned it; nobody else can 
ablar Espanol hardly at all yet, and I notice that some of my 
brother-officers are a little jealous and inclined to make 
sneering remarks, and it’s funny to see how they’ll make 
signs, or take any kind of trouble rather than ask me to 
translate for them. I don’t offer to help them, as I don’t 
propose to be made use of that way. They can pay people 
to do their translating if they want to. 

Speaking of pay, I’m glad I don’t have to pay any more 
than I do, for your dinero (money) don’t last long here as it 
is. These Mexicanos are the worst robbers; they charge you 
the mas (most) exorbitant prices for everything, even the 
commonest necessities of life. It takes every cent I’ve got 
for bare comfort, and don’t leave anything in case of emer¬ 
gencies. Don’t worry though; I can manage somehow, 
I supose. The only serious question is if I should get sick 
like our other brave fellows, I wouldn’t have enough to pay 
for being taken care of; however, I guess I could get along 
by myself, unless I got the vomito, which is almost sure to 
be fatal, especially when the patient is neglected. There is 
a good deal of vomito around, but it hasn’t got eppidemic 
yet. 

Everybody has been across the rio to take a look at Byrito; 
and some have been up to see Matamoras which is a few 
miles up the rio, and you can go on the steam-transport- 
boat. I went the other day, and thereby hangs a tail. Don’t 
read this part before Francie, until you’ve read it all to your¬ 
self. I myself think she ought to be told, as she and all of you 
have always thought Captain Burke was such a model young 
man. / never thought so, because I don’t tell all I know 
not by a good deal, but this is so fragrant it wouldn’t be right 
to keep it in the dark. I question whether a man of his 
habits ought to be allowed to go around and mix with people 
one knows, ladies especially. To begin at the beginning 
when we were down at the Boca where we had to stay for 
more than a week, we used to see all the boats with stuff 
for the army coming in from New Orleans and New York 
and the transports and volunteers landing every day, quite 
a sight; and one day one of them had on board a lot of actors 
going on up to Matamoras which is a pretty big town you 


346 


NATHAN BURKE 


know, for this country, and has a theatre or some place where 
they give performances. There were several ladies — you 
can imagine what kind they were — sitting on the decks with 
some of the gentlemen of the troupe, with wine which they 
were drinking out of the bottles, and they had got some of the 
pulque that they sell so much of around here of a peon fellow 
on the dock and were drinking that, too, and calling out to 
us on land, and singing and cutting up high jinks generally. 
Some of our fellows were looking on, of course, men and 
officers both, and I said to Kennard of the Baltimore Bat¬ 
talion (they are camped next to us) “ Isn’t that perfectly 
disgusting?” Kennard didn’t say anything, and I saw he 
was looking very hard at Burke, who was staring with all his 
eyes at somebody in the crowd on board, I couldn’t make out 
who. Then he turned around and said without seeing me: 
“Kennard I can’t help feeling sorry for those poor women.” 
Afterwards he walked away very slowly and thoughtfully 
and I said to Kennard “Burke must be hard hit. I wonder 
which one the charmer was.” Kennard didn’t answer for 
a minute, then he said. “Oh, Lord!” and he walked off, 
too. He’s a queer kind of fish, but you meet ever so many 
down here. I could see, however, that Burke had purposely 
avoided me, not wanting, I suppose to be caught at that 
sort of thing by anybody that knew him ; he was always a 
close-mouthed fellow anyhow, you know, and you never can 
tell what these Puritannic men are up to in secret. That 
was just before we got our marching orders; and the minute 
we reached here Burke got leave for twenty-four hours and 
went off to Matamoras and spent the day and night, never 
coming back until the next morning looking rather the worse 
for wear. Of course that don’t prove anything, but wait 
and hear what came next. He was off duty again yesterday 
when I went up, and I saw him with her ! It’s as plain as day 
to me now, and will be to you presently when I’ve told you 
the whole thing. His lady-love must have been one of the 
cargo of actors, though, of course, I didn’t see everyone of 
them, and certainly wouldn’t swear to having seen her. A 
person has to be awfully particular about a thing like this, 
and I hope I know what’s honorable. This just goes to show 
that some people like the noble, immacculate Captain are 
pretty deep, and not quite so white as they paint themselves. 


THE MAIL-BAG 


347 


I took a good look at the woman, although people like 
that haven’t any attractions for me , but this was a duty; 
and . . . 

(Page torn off and the rest of the letter missing.) 

Mrs. William Ducey to Mrs. Cornelia Marsh. 

(no date) 

Dearest Ma 

I have onl£ time for a note to enclose Georgie’s letter 
which of course you will want to read as it has just come direct 
from the army and besides has other things in it that will 
interest you even if you aren’t particularly interested in him. 
Please don’t fail to return it as you know I have kept every 
scrap he has ever written me. I know Ma you think I am 
ridiculous about George but if you would just remember that 
he’s my son and all the child I’ve got in the world I don’t 
think you would say the things you did in your last letter 
which I have to tell you cut me awfully. Of course I know 
George isn’t perfect but you forget that he is very young and 
his character isn’t all formed yet and sometimes he does say 
funny things like that about his being so good at Spanish* 
when I don’t see how he can be after only two or three weeks 
and I dont think he ought to have gone and bothered his 
superior officers who must have a great deal on their minds 
anyhow by telling them what they ought to do when they 
must have known more about it than he did and had a great 
deal more experience or they wouldn’t be where they are. 
You see dear Ma I see George’s faults the same as you do 
but I know that he will get all over them in a little while 
he’s only twenty-two now and I don’t believe I had as much 
sense at twenty-two as I have now. I won’t send you any 
more of his letters as you don’t care to read them but this 
one was important on account of what he says about Nathan 
Burke. It is very shocking. Do you think Mary Sharpless 
ought to be told ? It would be an awful thing for any decent 
girl let alone a lady like Mary to marry such a man but I 
wouldn’t want to be the person to tell her about him. Not that 
I think Mary would be heart-broken over it she’s not that kind 
and everybody here knows that she just took him because 
she was afraid of being an old maid forever and she couldn’t 
get Jack Vardaman for all her fishing. Anyway Nathan 


348 


NATHAN BURKE 


may get shot in the war and one wouldn’t like to bring up 
anything against him after he was dead and if he was to come 
back all crippled up Mary wouldn’t have him anyhow so 
there’s not much use my worrying. It’s a great deal better 
to wait a while and see what happens for it may all come 
out some other way you know they say murder will out. 
I haven’t told Francie but I gave the letter to William and 
Uncle George to read and of course they were both very much 
surprised the whole thing is so strange and unexpected and 
Will said Well truth is certainly stranger than fiction and 

Uncle George said that By d-some people didn’t know 

the difference between ’em. Nathan’s such a favorite of 
his he simply won’t believe anything against him, you know 
and then he never did love George. But I never contradict 
Uncle George nowadays he’s getting so old and feeble we 
just let him say what he pleases. 

You know he is going to draw out of the business. William 
says by September first Uncle George will be out and the 
partnership dissolved. Will is so happy it gives him a free 
hand at last and he will be able to do so much better he says 
they have lost thousands of dollars this last year by Uncle 
George’s slowness and unwillingness to go into any enter¬ 
prise. I don’t know what Uncle George will do with himself 
without the store, but he has plenty of money anyhow and 
don’t need to make any more. 

There isn’t any news for everybody is just sitting around 
waiting to hear from the war. I heard that Jimmie Sharp¬ 
less was planning to go but he’s never said a word to us about 
it and I’m sure he’s had plenty of chances for he’s up here 
every night of the world to see Francie. Poor Louise 
Andrews Louise Gwynne that was you know is very low with 
inflammation of the lungs and not expected to live. I feel 
so sorry for her husband and those two little children. 

My note has stretched out into a pretty long letter hasn’t 
it ? Must stop now with ever so much love 

Ann 

P.S. I do hope you won’t feel hurt at what I said about 
what you said about Georgie it’s just that you don’t seem to 
understand him and don’t realize that he hasn’t had time to 
develope yet. Lovingly Ann. 



CHAPTER II 


In which we make Some New Friends and meet one 
Old One 

Mitchell’s regiment, which numbered some eight hun¬ 
dred men, was sent down by way of the Ohio and Mississippi 
rivers and the Gulf, traversing the latter in the first steam- 
propelled vessel many of them had ever beheld; and during 
this part of the journey one at least of these eight hundred 
warriors, not being used to salt-water navigation, was in a 
very unwarriorlike state of physical collapse, so that the 
feeblest of Mexicans could have made an end of him in short 
order. The troops were disembarked July Fourth — which 
should have been a good omen although everybody forgot 
the date until days afterwards! — at the Brazos on a sandy 
island where were already collected several thousand volun¬ 
teers, and in this salubrious spot they remained for about a 
fortnight, after which they were moved first to a camp at 
the mouth of the Rio Grande, and later about fifteen miles 
further up the river, giving all of them a chance to get 
acquainted on the march with “that d—d chaparral,” 
As an obstruction to the passage of an army it merited all 
the derogatory comment passed upon it; but our fellows 
took it cheerfully enough; they fell into the habit of calling 
any kind of resistant undergrowth “chaparral,” whether 
cactus, maguey, mesquite, or what-not, nor have I ever found 
out to what the name actually and correctly applied. The 
discomforts of this campaign in the middle of summer, with 
torrid heats, plunging downpours of rain, bottomless mud, 
invincible dust, a plentiful variety of insects and vermin 
comparable only to those that beset the Egyptians, rations 
not always of the first quality, and no immediate expecta¬ 
tion of a fight to raise the spirits — these are incident to all 
campaigns and need not be dwelt upon here. Captain 
Burke, who was not without some sense of humor, occa¬ 
sionally wondered with a grin that the title to such a country 

349 


350 


NATHAN BURKE 


should ever have been disputed, or if there was a man in our 
ranks, not excepting himself, who knew what we were fight¬ 
ing about! He himself withstood the hardships of the life 
tolerably well, being of a somewhat philosophical turn of 
mind, and, what was more to the purpose perhaps, of a lean, 
tough, and enduring body; the expedition and encampment 
brought vaguely to his memory old martial myths, the 
black ships, the many-tented plain of windy Troy; he had 
read of them how long ago ! when he was a boy in the stable- 
loft behind the Ducey house, stumbling amongst the alien 
names, and thrilling through all his backwoodsman blood 
to the great sounding recital of adventure and conquest. 
Indeed, the camp here on the Rio Grande, besides the con¬ 
stantly arriving and departing vessels, the crowding troops 
from every State in the Union with their one speech and their 
astounding variety of talk, the flying rumors, the alarums 
and excursions, was not lacking in other points of resem¬ 
blance. General Twiggs was encamped above the town of 
Matamoros; General Worth, near at hand, below it; Gen¬ 
eral Taylor himself just outside; heroic celebrities, as great 
to the imagination of an obscure young captain of volunteers 
as any that ever stalked through the pages of the ^Eneid, 
were to be familiarly seen, nay, even met and talked with, 
like ordinary men, any hour of the day. Burke himself 
was actually presented to that ideal of his earlier years, 
little George Croghan. The youthful defender of Fort 
Stephenson was now a weatherbeaten veteran of sixty-odd, 
still in the service and lately appointed Inspector of Vol¬ 
unteers, in which- capacity Nat encountered him. The Ohio 
captain, who had ignorantly supposed the inspector to be 
some younger edition of little Georgie, was delighted; but 
alack, Colonel Croghan turned out to be an abrupt, cold- 
tempered, elderly gentleman with that not very carefully 
concealed scorn of the volunteer service which was enter¬ 
tained by some of the regular-army officers, and when Burke 
ventured to mention Fort Stephenson and to inquire if the 
Colonel happened to remember a scout named Jake Darnell, 
— “Huh — Fort-Stephenson — huh!” says the other, scowl¬ 
ing upon,him; “Darnell, huh? No, I never heard of him. 
Never asked the name of a single damn scout in my life!” 
with which amiable speech the interview ended. 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 351 


Drawing-room manners were perhaps not to be expected in 
this great concourse of men of all classes brought together, high 
and low, good, bad, and indifferent for one savage purpose. 
But, to tell the truth, Burke thought he discerned a certain 
popularity in roughness-and-readiness throughout the camp. 
Nobody could have been more genuinely simple in his tastes, 
more careless of display, more patient under every kind of 
makeshift and discomfort than the plain and sturdy old 
leader. It was natural that those habits and qualities that 
so endeared him to the rank-and-file and to the American 
public at large should have been imitated, or rather travestied 
and exaggerated, by others eager for the popularity to which 
General Taylor himself never gave a thought. “He’s camp¬ 
ing in a tent up there about a mile outside of Matamoros 
when he might just as well be comfortably housed in the 
town,” one officer told Burke with a look of wonder, de¬ 
scribing a recent visit he had made to the head of the army; 
“he’s made Twiggs governor of Matamoros, you know, and 
I expect he thinks this will be mpre convenient and prevent 
any clashing of authority. Anyhow, there he is. His tent 
is just like all the others, pitched right out in the broiling sun, 
just a few of these little twisted, gnarled-up trees they grow 
down here on one side of it, and not a guard nor a sentry in 
sight, Burke! There was a fat little youngster, a child of 
some camp-follower, I suppose, playing right outside it. 
I got there just as the general was getting through with a 
deputation — of civilians, you know — representing some 
people in New Orleans that wanted to vote him something 
-— I don’t know what it was all about. Whatever it was, he 
was declining the honor. I heard him say that,while he 
appreciated their generosity, he thought there would be a 
certain impropriety in his receiving a reward for his services 
before the campaign, so far as he was concerned, was finished. 
And he went on and gave them a talk on the mistake people 
made in naming children and places after men before they 
were dead! I suppose they had wanted to do something of 
the kind. Maybe it wasn’t very politic, but I tell you it was 
good horse-sense, and I believe the committee saw it that 
way. How many other men in public life that people were 
sounding for the Presidency would have done it, do you sup¬ 
pose ? I’ll bet there’s not another in the country ! ” 


352 


NATHAN BURKE 


“ Shouldn’t wonder !” said Burke, thinking, with a smile* 
of Governor Gwynne. “ What does he look like ? ” 

“Why, heavy set, rather, with gray hair — pretty near 
white it is, too; he’s over sixty, you know — and blue eyes, 
or gray eyes, I couldn’t say exactly — clean-shaven, tanned 
like an Indian, of course. I think he’d be a fair-com- 
plexioned man naturally. He was sitting on a dry-goods 
box with one of those red Arkansas blankets folded up* on 
top of it for a cushion, and he didn’t have on fatigue uniform, 
but a kind of a linen jacket and pantaloons, and a straw 
hat about three feet wide, more or less. There wasn’t 
a thing in the tent but his iron camp-cot, and a couple of 
blue-painted chests that he was using for a table. It might 
have been your tent or mine. No gold-braid and bugle- 
tooting about him, I tell you. I guess the folks at home 
would think he looked more like a Louisiana planter than the 
general of the biggest army we’ve ever got together.” He 
paused, reflecting with a puckered forehead, then burst out 
enthusiastically: “All the same, Burke, he’s a general, 
and about the only one we’ve had since Washington — of 
course there’s Scott, too. But I believe the men, the regu¬ 
lars, the fellows that know him, would follow Zachary Taylor 
to hell, if he just got on old Whitey’s back and said, ‘Come 
on, boys! ’ Look how fond they are of him — they talk about 
him the whole time.” 

This was true, as Burke had already noticed. He used to 
hear the camp-fire gossip: Old Zack did this, Old Zack said 
that; even the volunteers, hundreds of whom, like Burke 
himself, had never yet seen him, had caught the contagion of 
affectionate pride and confidence. The general had turned 
out of his bed to give it to a sick private in some sudden dearth 
of beds, himself sleeping rolled up in a blanket on the ground. 
When the two armies lay opposite each other before Mata- 
moros, General Arista replied to the American commander’s 
remonstrance that the Mexican soldiers were robbing and 
mutilating the bodies of the American dead by the state¬ 
ment that these atrocities were not committed by the Mexi¬ 
can army, but by camp-followers whom he could not control. 
“When I come over the river, I will control them!” said our 
stout old chief. And he did. These and a dozen other like 
stories circulated among the troops; and it may be thought 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 353 


a strange thing, but one, I believe, that has been observed 
before, that what all these rough fellows admired and re¬ 
spected in their leader, more even than his courage, was hi. 
humanity. 

The last-named quality was, however, either not so ap¬ 
parent or not so easily parodied as the rough-and-readiness; 
officers and men, we became not too fastidious in our habits; 
we smoked, we chewed, we drank, I fear our army swore 
dreadfully in Texas. We must have been a distressing 
spectacle to disciplinarians like Lieutenant Ducey. George 
himself was as much the dandy officer as he had been at home, 
to the wonder and the very great recreation of his fellow- 
soldiers. I have seen the sentries stare and break into 
smothered guffaws behind his back as the lieutenant strutted 
by, head up and chest well thrown out, scented, pink, and 
shaven, creaking in his tight belt, his brilliantly polished 
boots, twirling his moustache, which was a magnificent 
growth by this time, and flashing killing glances out of his 
large dark eyes at any woman who looked worth it. The 
young man was not more popular here than he had been at 
home. What was it that was the matter with George Ducey? 
A man need not be less a man for being fond of fine clothes 
and of looking in the mirror; there were idle and worthless 
youths in plenty, there were fops and braggarts among us, 
but I am sure they made some friends. George made none, 
or none that he kept. The officers, both regular and volun¬ 
teer, whom we met would not take him into comradeship; 
Captain Burke began to hear disagreeable rumors; George 
borrowed and did not pay; George lost all his money at 
euchre to some expert and he reported the fact to Colonel 
Mitchell, and talked loud about cheating and professional 
gamblers — “hang him, can't he keep his mouth shut? 
If he will play, he ought to take his medicine! " said one young 
fellow to another testily. “Cheat, hey? I cheat, do I?” 
said the winner, with a perfectly brutal laugh. “Tell him 
from me that I'll spank him on sight!" These tales came 
to Captain Burke only after long and devious wanderings 
throughout the entire camp, for curiously enough there was 
a general impression that Ducey and he were in some way 
related, founded, perhaps, on the fact that they came from 
the same place and were even members of the same com- 

2a 



354 


NATHAN BURKE 


pany; and on one or two occasions the captain had under¬ 
taken George's debts, being loath to let washerwomen and 
such small fry go unpaid. So that even General Twiggs, 
whose acquaintance Burke had made some while before, 
remarked to him one day that he understood that young 
Ducey fellow was some connection of his — was it a step¬ 
brother ? Burke explaining that this was a mistake — “Well, 
I'm glad to hear it," said the general, briskly, adding in that 
richly ornamented style of speech for which he was noted: 
“By G—d, Captain, I was going to say if it was so, you had a 
d—d liar for a step-brother! ” But I do not think this notion 
was ever entirely corrected. Not only at Matamoros, but 
later during almost the whole time our armies spent in 
Mexico, Burke would receive casual inquiries about his step¬ 
brother, his cousin, even his nephew, for the captain ap¬ 
peared much the elder, although, in fact, there were but 
three or four years between them. It was not until the 
American troops reached Mexico City, after more than a 
year's campaigning, that these questions ceased, and then 
only after various events which influenced Burke's fellow- 
officers, out of a mistaken kindness, to refrain from mention¬ 
ing the captain's relative at all. 

The young man whom I quoted at length a little way back 
was almost Burke's first acquaintance; he belonged to the 
Maryland troops, and was surely one of the bravest soldiers 
and best gentlemen that ever lived — as indeed his whole 
career testified. The friendship began, for an oddity, 
through a fearful squabble between half a dozen companies 
of their respective regiments over a catfish caught by some¬ 
body on either one or the other side — no one ever found out 
which; and this, occurring about twilight with oaths, blows, 
drawn weapons, and a terrific riot, might have involved the 
two entire regiments in a bloody scrimmage and had the most 
appalling results, had not a few officers retained influence and 
presence of mind enough to keep their men in their company 
streets, and afterwards running in between the most violent, 
succeeded in persuading them not to fire on one another, 
and finally brought them to reason. In the course of these 
exertions the two captains encountered, to the vast relief 
of each. 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 355 


“ Lord, I never shall forget how I felt when you started in,” 
the Maryland officer confided to the other after a truce had 
been patched up, and they walked away together from the 
field. “One shot would have started them all, and Heaven 
knows how many lives might have been wasted in this mis¬ 
erable fuss. Somebody had ordered your fellows to load up 
with ball cartridge — it was just as bad on our side. Wat¬ 
son, our colonel, is off duty and gone somewhere, and for a 
while there didn’t seem to be any of our officers around but' 
me. I saw you coming and for a minute I was afraid you 
might be as crazy as the rest.” He stopped, drew a long 
breath, and wiped his forehead. “Whew! I don’t think 
we’ll have much hotter work with the Mexicans.” 

“I wish we could get our men under the same discipline 
as the regulars,” Burke said enviously; “you never hear of 
any such disgraceful rumpus between them. I suppose your 
company is just like mine — some of ’em good, sober, steady, 
orderly men — some just hoodlums — some nothing but 
boys out for a frolic. I think they’ll all fight; but that 
doesn’t do much good if they won’t obey orders, and behave 
themselves.” 

“That’s so,” assented the other. “We haven’t heard the 
last of this, either. Both our colonels will probably make 
complaint at headquarters, you know.” He hesitated a 
moment, then put out his hand and said with a very kind, 
straightforward, and winning manner, “Well, whatever bad 
‘blood there is between the men, that’s no reason why we 
should be enemies, Captain. My name’s Kennard of the 
Baltimore Battalion.” Whereupon, Captain Burke naming 
himself in turn, the two young men shook hands heartily. 

The regiments being encamped side by side, they saw more 
or less of each other thereafter; they used to exchange opin¬ 
ions, smoking in their tents in off hours, on the conduct of 
the campaign, the character of the generals, the state of the 
army, the nature of the country, and the Mexicans themselves, 
for whom both felt a sort of contemptuous pity. The last 
topic, indeed, engrossed a good deal of their talk, neither of 
them ever having been in a foreign country before. Kennard, 
coming from the big eastern city with its port on the Atlantic, 
its larger society, its more cosmopolitan atmosphere than 
had Burke’s little inland town, was still hardly less impressed 


356 


NATHAN BURKE 


than the quondam farmer-boy, though by very different 
aspects of the scene. Nat surveyed the sad, rain-soaked, 
or sun-baked landscape, the endless cactus, the Biblical- 
looking ploughs, the donkeys, the little grave black oxen, 
the women carrying their terra-cotta water-jars on their 
heads after an unbelievably Oriental fashion, the swagger¬ 
ing, jingling, lariated, be-spurred, and be-pistolled ranch¬ 
men, with unending wonder, and also, although he was of a 
’rather practical turn, with some appreciation of their pictu¬ 
resque possibilities. He found himself reminded almost in 
one breath, as it were, of the Arabian Nights and the Old 
Testament; Rebecca, Naomi, Sinbad, and Ali Baba would 
be equally at home in Mexico, and might elbow one another 
in the road without incongruity, he thought. Kennard, on 
the other hand, plainly suffered, to the exclusion of any other 
sentiment, from a kind of depression at sight of the ignorance, 
disease, and poverty surrounding us. 

“Poor creatures! ” he used to ejaculate. “ Did you ever see 
anything so wretched, so apathetic, so near to the brutes as 
these peons? They’re forever sitting on the ground — they 
live crawling around on the ground like ants; they eat and 
sleep wherever they happen to be, like dogs. They haven’t 
any homes — you can’t call these adobe hovels they live in, 
fifteen or twenty people all pigging together, you can’t call 
them homes. Why, our negro slaves wouldn’t live that way 
— we wouldn’t allow it — we take care of our slaves, and see 
that they’re clean and healthy — I suppose you don’t think * 
so, coming from your State — ” he interrupted himself, 
glancing at his companion a little sharply, “but —” 

“Why, I should think you’d take the best of care of them,” 
said Burke, smoking steadily. “That would be common 
sense and good policy, to say nothing of humanity.” 

“Of course,” said the other, satisfied; “but I was going 
to tell you I went into one of their dens the other day, over 
in Burito, just for curiosity. There were half a dozen women, 
old hags at twenty-five or thirty, you know how they get to 
looking, one girl not more than fourteen years old, I swear, 
suckling a baby. I don’t know how many other babies 
sprawling on the dirt floor, stark naked two of ’em, with their 
faces all broken out in sores—” 

“You ought to be careful,” interrupted Burke; “you 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 357 


don’t want to start an epidemic among the men, let alone 
getting some kind of contagion yourself.” 

“ ’Twasn’t anything but chicken-pox, I think, and Eve 
had that. Besides, the camp is full of mumps and measles 
anyway — the contagion I'd carry wouldn't be a drop in the 
bucket. There was a live turkey tied by the leg under a 
shelf, a couple of men asleep — dead drunk — on benches. 
Gr-r-ungh ! I never saw a worse hole, no, not even along the 
water-front at home. The difference is that you can’t stop 
to look in at a place like that at home without getting a crack 
on the head —” 

“ In Mexico it’s more likely to be a knife through your back, 
hey?” said Burke, grinning. 

“No, that’s what seems to me so remarkable. These 
people are really well disposed towards us; it’s the way we’ve 
acted. We pay as we go and we certainly pay high, and we 
treat ’em like human beings. One of them that could speak 
a little English told me the other day that they liked us 
better than Arista’s army. And these poor things in the hut 
looked up and smiled and invited me in, and one of the women 
offered me a tortilla she’d just baked — one of those corn- 
meal cakes they make, you know. She was slopping around 
with the dough — batter — whatever they call it, on a slant¬ 
ing board, the way they stir ’em up — you’ve seen them in 
market, haven’t you ? ’ It wasn’t very appetizing, but I 
took it anyhow, and threw it away after I got outside.” 

‘‘ I suppose those that we buy in camp here, when the women 
come around with the trays of stuff, are all made the same 
way and in just such places,” Burke said. “They don’t 
taste bad. If we never get any worse than that, we’ll be 
doing well. Is there a market at Burito? I didn’t see it.” 

“Why, no, I meant the market at Matamoros. Haven’t 
you been there yet ?” 

Captain Burke had, not yet been to Matamoros. Let’s 
go to Matamoros, by all means. “It’s areal Mexican town 
— just as Mexican as can be,” Kennard told him. “I’ll 
tell you what: let’s arrange to stay all night, and go to the 
theatre. Don’t you remember that theatrical company 
we saw going up the river? They’re there now. Mata¬ 
moros is full to the guards, you know — all kinds of people. 
Ask where they come from and every mother’s son of ’em 


358 


NATHAN BURKE 


will tell you New Orleans. Further than that nobody knows, 
and better not ask, I guess. I know a fellow that’s with the 
regulars there — with the artillery. His name’s Ridgely, 
and maybe I can get him to take us around.” 

Next day Captain Burke got his leave of absence for the 
twenty-four hours; but Kennard was disappointed of his, 
so that the first-named gentleman was obliged regretfully to 
set out alone. Kennard scrawled a note of introduction to 
Lieutenant Randolph Ridgely of the Light Artillery, who was, 
in fact, a member of the lamented Major Ringgold’s famous 
battery, and had borne himself with great gallantry on the 
fields of Palo Alto and Resaca — another hero whom Burke 
was highly pleased to meet. Being furnished with this, the 
captain went across the river to Burito and bought a wild, 
little, evil-eyed, and cat-motioned mustang pony for six 
dollars upon which he proposed to make the trip; but the 
steamboat Virginia opportunely happening along, he took 
passage on her instead, and arriving at Matamoros about 
noon, disembarked and wandered up into the streets, staring 
with his alien eyes upon the worn and antique town that 
showed yellow and blue and many-colored walls, and roofs 
of thatch or tiles and outlandish semi-tropic greenery under 
the July sun. About all the Mexican towns that Burke 
saw — although this may have been merely his perverted 
fancy — there hung an invincible melancholy; their busy, 
discordant market-places, their gaudy shops were not lively; 
even the presence of the invader, whether they hated, or 
liked, or only suffered us, could not arouse them to anything 
resembling movement or energy; we paid our way hand¬ 
somely and must have brought them more trade than they 
ever had before or since (surely the descendants of a nation 
of shopkeepers may take a little pride in that statement); 
yet even so it was as if the spirit of the people stood aloof 
and regarded us not resentfully, hut with a sphinxlike 
detachment, absorbed in its own sombre meditation. As 
Burke walked up from the landings, there was some bustle 
of arrival, the town was full of soldiers, one of our bands — 
the Seventh Regiment, I think — was practising in the ala- 
meda, booming out “The Low-Back’d Car” with all its 
brazen lungs, there were people passing to and fro, bright 
draperies, flapping flags, yet one had but to pause and look 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 359 


aside — and lo, the vista of a long, pensive, silent street, high, 
blank walls, iron-grated windows, glaring, white, unkind 
sunlight, cold shadow , a native woman, shapeless under her 
blue cotton head-shawl, crouching in the dust; the scene 
not two steps separated from the first, yet ineffably remote, 
a piece of ancient civilization grafted on a commingled civili¬ 
zation and savagery more ancient still — old as these estab¬ 
lished hills. The young fellow, fresh from the sturdy drab 
and homespun activity of his Ohio town that numbered 
scarcely more years than himself, felt a slight depression at 
this settled and pervasive antiquity; the very cathedral 
on the plaza looked venerable, although it was a compara¬ 
tively new building, as yet unfinished; he took it at first 
for an interesting ruin — not the only one he saw, for the 
town bore traces of our cannonading from Fort Brown on 
the opposite side of the river. Few lives had been lost, 
however, Ampudia having evacuated the place almost with¬ 
out a blow. Nat had the honor of dining in the house lately 
occupied by the Mexican general, and now converted into 
the “Fonda del Comercio” by an enterprising American. 
Captain Burke was the guest within these historic portals 
of Lieutenant Ridgely, to whom he went and presented his 
letter of introduction, and whom he found to be a most cor¬ 
dial, agreeable, and soldierly-looking gentleman, who insisted 
on giving him the Maryland welcome of a meal. 

“I can’t answer for it,” he said with a laugh; “but at any 
rate it won’t be any worse than camp-fare. Weren’t you 
surprised to find the place fairly boiling over with Ameri¬ 
cans ? It’s miraculous how quick they all got here. Sir, I 
declare we hadn’t been in occupation a week when they all 
came down like — like the water at Lodore in the poem. 
American goods, American drinks, American storekeepers, 
faro-dealers, saloon-men, gamblers, horse-thieves — they’ve 
run the Mexicans clean out — never saw anything like it!” 

Between this and other speeches which the gallant lieu¬ 
tenant delivered with great energy, eating and drinking, 
pressing the captain to more rabbit, more eggs, more fric¬ 
asseed kidney, more coffee and soda-biscuit, and ordering 
the slouching Mexican waiters about in halting but vigor¬ 
ous Spanish with that extraordinary manner at once amiable 
and imperative in which so many southerners address their 


360 


NATHAN BURKE 


servants — between times he pointed out to his companion 
numbers of celebrities, for it appeared the “ Fonda del 
Comercio ,, was much patronized by the army. Captain 
Burke was not sorry to find himself in this distinguished and 
interesting company. It is one thing to read in print about 
Captain Walker and his band of Texas Rangers armed with 
“ Colt’s patent repeaters/’ who, fifty of them, had stood off 
fifteen hundred Mexicans in a pitched fight on the banks 
of this same Rio Grande no longer ago than last April — it 
is one thing to read about this exploit, and another to behold 
a wiry-looking gentleman of two- or three-and-thirty years, 
tanned to the color of a Mexican saddle, peaceably eating 
pork and beans (with his knife) at a table within arms’ 
length, and be told that that man is Captain Samuel Walker 
“of the Rangers, you know.” He has on a sort of nonde¬ 
script uniform, his “patent repeater,” nay, his two patent 
repeaters, may be clearly seen, hitched to his belt and repos¬ 
ing one on either hip; he converses with the waiter in that 
nasal and singsong Spanish peculiar to this country. The 
volunteer captain stares at him unreservedly. Powers above, 
what has this man not done and endured! What bloody 
battles against desperate odds has he waged with Seminoles, 
Comanches, Mexicans! He has known starvation and fever 
in the horrid prison-cells of Perote — escaped — been retaken 
— escaped again a dozen times. At Salado Santa Anna 
condemned him and his handful of wretches to decimation by 
lot — one black bean in the bowl of white for every tenth 
man. He escaped once more. “I should think he’d never 
want to see another bean!” Burke says, thinking of this in¬ 
cident, and observing with what gusto the Ranger is stowing 
them away. His companion laughs, and an officer, who has 
just come in and has been giving his order in very fluent 
and easy Spanish, pauses by their table and asks if there is 
room for him? “Why, of course, sir. General, my friend 
Captain Burke of the First Ohio. Burke, General Quit- 
man.” 

Nat got up and saluted; but the other offered his hand. 
“Why, Captain Burke, you and I are in the same boat and 
ought to stand by each other; we’re nothing but volunteers, 
you know, and we’re only too glad to get a little notice from 
one of these regulars — a fellow like Ridgely, here, for in- 


SOME NEW EMENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 361 

stance,” said the general, pleasantly; and went on — as they 
sat down — to say that he was especially glad to meet the 
men who might presently come under his personal command. 

I understand all the volunteers are to be organized into a 
field division under Butler or Hamer and in all probability 
I shall have a brigade.” 

“ You’ll get your own Mississippi men, and some of the 
other troops from the Southern States,” Ridgely prophesied 
blithely; “the Southern men had better be all shaken down 
together. Burke here can tell you that,” he said, winking. 
Quitman, looking at Burke, smiled and asked if he was one of 
the officers who had taken a hand in quelling the disturbance 
the other evening ? “ I take an interest in Ohio,” he added; 

“I lived there for a while twenty years or so ago, when I was 
a young fellow about like you — or even younger, I guess. 
Do you know anybody in D— County?” 

Nathan flushed up. “I was 1 born there,” he said with a 
boyish stir of sentiment at the chance reference. Perhaps 
General Quitman himself was not ill-pleased in this far place 
to meet some one with whom he could pass a common memory. 
He talked quite eagerly about D—and its people, and the 
Scioto; and when Ridgely was obliged to go on duty and the 
little party broke up, separated from them with warm expres¬ 
sions of regret. 

Burke, thrown once more on his own resources, went out 
and roamed about the streets and market-house in the laud¬ 
able purpose of acquiring some closer knowledge of the na¬ 
tives, and improving his command of the Spanish, or more 
properly, the Mexican tongue; meeting an occasional black 
look, but finding the people in general very simple, kind, 
and obliging, and ready to help out his stumbling phrases. 
Ridgely had hardly exaggerated; Matamoros was boiling over 
with Americans—and not the most select assortment at that. 
To judge by the society our army attracted and the quality 
of entertainment provided for it, you might have supposed it 
was made up of drunken rowdies and blackguards. Burke 
went into what appeared to be one of the most popular bar¬ 
rooms of the place, which flourished under the title of “The 
Grand Spanish Saloon ” — the establishment not presenting, 
however, a single Spanish feature. It was a long, low-ceil- 


362 


NATHAN BURKE 


inged room like a tunnel, its only window, which was really a 
pair of glass double-doors in the usual Mexican fashion, open¬ 
ing on an inner court, floored with slimy bricks, where some 
potted plants sickened in the over-heated foul air. The 
bar occupied one side; on the other there were a great num¬ 
ber of tables where many gentlemen of various complexions, 
but an equal and most astonishing degree of skill, were en¬ 
gaged at roulette, faro, keno, chuck-a-luck and other ingen¬ 
ious pastimes. All these practitioners went armed, it seemed, 
and seldom in his life has Captain Burke been received with 
more marked attention; he could not approach a table with¬ 
out some member of the party seated thereat starting a little 
nervously and feeling for his weapon! At the back of the 
room, after having made the tour of both sides, the captain 
found, to his unqualified amazement, a coffee-stand in charge 
of a lean, quiet-looking youth of eighteen or so, who was read¬ 
ing in the corner. The stand, which was nothing more than a 
board across a couple of barrels, was draped in red curtain- 
calico and spread with clean white paper; there was a tin 
coffee-urn and some plates of cakes. Burke, wondering 
within him who patronized this modest enterprise in such a 
place, went up and asked for coffee, and the boy got up, set 
the spirit-lamp going, and served him gravely. He was 
shabbily dressed but had a pair of clean hands,—very 
nearly the first Nat had seen in Mexico, — and the coffee 
was hot and fairly good. 

“This isn’t a very good place for a boy like you, my lad,” 
said the captain — who, being at this time somewhere in the 
neighborhood of twenty-five years of age, and of a sober char¬ 
acter and experience, was inclined sometimes to take himself 
pretty seriously. The other looked at him with a kind of 
sprite-like humor, in which there showed, too, both un¬ 
derstanding and good-nature; he had a thin, spirited, and 
singularly mobile face. 

“Well, I don’t know that it’s such a very good place for an 
old manlike you, grandpa,” he remarked. Their eyes met; 
and Nat had the grace to burst out laughing — a laugh in 
which the boy joined whole-heartedly. 

“Well, but I mean it,” Burke persisted. “How do you 
happen to be here ? ” 

“Business,” said the other, succinctly, beginning to clear 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 363 


away the coffee-cup and spoon. “We thought we’d get more 
customers in a place like this.” 

“Do you, though ?” 

“ I don’t know — I never tried selling coffee before, so I 
can’t tell whether we’re doing a roaring trade, or only just 
keeping our heads above water,” said the boy, with gravity. 
“I haven’t anything to compare by, you see.” 

Here a sallow, black-haired man in black broadcloth with 
a diamond on his little finger, another in his shirt-front, a silk 
hat, and a pistol in his hip-pocket — one of the gamblers, in 
short, lounged forward and spun a dollar on the counter. 
“Gimme a cup of coffee, Joe.” Nathan sat down on a 
whiskey-keg, conveniently near, and watched Joe serve out 
the hot drink. “ Keep the change — that’s all right — keep 
it!” said his patron, magnificently, and swaggered away, 
barely glancing at the humble infantry-officer sitting by. 
Joe picked up the dollar, thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t 
happen in a respectable place, I suppose,” he said, grinning a 
little. 

“ Yo\i haven’t always done this, then? ” Nathan asked him. 

“Hey? Had a coffee-stand? Well, no, I should think 
not! ” said the other, with some youthful arrogance. “ I’m an 
actor.” 

“Oh. Are you with the company here in town? The 
ones that came up the river the other day ? ” said Burke, sur¬ 
prised and faintly disappointed. At the time of which I 
write there was a disposition in certain circles to look with 
disapproval on what we now acknowledge to be one of the 
noblest of professions. I am glad to say that Mr. Burke had 
never shared this absurd and stupid and cruel prejudice ; but 
he had happened to see the dramatic troupe he mentioned on 
their journey, and this boy, who was plainly too good for his 
present employment, should be also, Nat thought, too good 
for that miserable crew, those painted, haggard, loud¬ 
mouthed women, and coarse men. Indeed, young Joe 
flushed a good deal, and cast a troubled look at his ques¬ 
tioner. 

“No, no — I don’t act with them. I’m here with my 
mother and sister; we — we don’t even know those people, ” 
he explained hastily; “we’ve been here for months — came 
from Galveston this Spring. We heard the guns at Palo 


364 


NATHAN BURKE 


Alto the very day we got here, while we were on the steam¬ 
boat at Point Isabel.” 

“You don’t say! Why, you were here through it all,” 
exclaimed Burke, interested. “Gracious! You didn’t see 
any of the fighting, did you?” 

“Oh, no. But we saw Ringgold’s funeral,” said the boy, 
with enthusiasm; “they had him on one of the gun-carriages 
— what do you call ’em? — a caisson, isn’t it? — with the 
flag spread over him and all the soldiers marching with their 
arms reversed, and the drums muffled, and the band going 
soft — it was solemn and awful — it was a great sight!” 
The dramatic aspect of the scene, it was evident, touched him 
deeply; his young voice vibrated as he spoke. 

“It’s a wonder you didn’t enlist on the spot,” said Burke, 
a little amused. 

“Well, military funerals aren’t exactly an inducement, you 
know,” retorted the other, with a slight yet curiously conta¬ 
gious chuckle; then his face sobered. “Besides, I can’t leave 
mother,” he said seriously. “ This wouldn’t be any place for 
her and my sister without me to take care of them. It’s not 
much of a place for women — American women — anyhow.” 

“ You’ve been here ever since, then ? ” 

“Yes — oh, yes. We were acting in the theatre here, you 
know. Then, here a couple of weeks ago, our manager 
vamoosed — cleared out — with all the receipts, and some 
back-salaries. That left us all—” he spread his hands and 
brought them down on the slab in front of him with a gesture 
in which one saw a complete void, a world of emptiness — 
“flat — stony broke —” he said with a kind of airy tragedy, 
cheerful and unafraid. “No use trying to get after him, you 
know — we couldn’t have got anything out of him, even if we 
could have found him.” 

“What became of the rest of your company?” Burke 
asked, not a little entertained by this slight glimpse of the 
players’ world. Joe shook his head. 

“Don’t know,” he said light-heartedly; “most of ’em 
scraped up the money to go — get back to the States some¬ 
how. One fellow stayed, and he and I went into this to¬ 
gether — firm’s name is Badger and Jefferson — Edward 
Badger and Joseph Jefferson. We used to do the comedy 
parts together.” He gave a light sigh, and meditatively 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 365 


rearranged his cups and saucers. “Texas may be all right for 
a ranger,” he said profoundly, “but Em convinced it’s no 
field for the legitimate.” 

“The legitimate?” said Burke, not understanding. 

“Yes — the regular drama. ‘Now is the winter of our 
discontent—’ and all the rest of it. Maybe IT1 have to 
enlist yet. You’re one of the enlisted men, the volunteers, I 
mean, aren’t you ? Doesn’t that shoulder-strap, or whatever 
you call it, mean a captain?” 

“Yes, my name’s Burke of the Ohio Volunteers.” 

“Burke? Is that so? I’ve got a step-brother named 
Burke. He’s an actor, too; he’s in Philadelphia now — at 
least that’s the last we heard,” said the boy, appearing to take 
this wide distribution of the family quite as a matter of 
course. “None of us come from Ohio, though, so I suppose 
we can’t be any relation.” 

Burke, being himself quite kinless, said that he was afraid 
not. “Where’s your partner?” he added. “Does he leave 
you to do all the work alone ? ” 

“Oh, no. I guess he’s — he’s busy somewhere,” said the 
boy, sending — unconsciously, I think — a disturbed glance 
toward the card-tables. “He always turns up at evening 
anyhow, so we can go home together. He’s got a pistol — 
person has to be pretty careful after dark here, you know.” 

It was nearing dusk already, as Burke remarked with sur¬ 
prise. And Badger not appearing, the captain, who carried 
a patent-repeater himself, volunteered to convoy young Jef¬ 
ferson home with the “swag,” as he humorously termed the 
profits of his day’s labor, which he bestowed in a buckskin 
bag — it did not need a very large one. This treasure he in¬ 
trusted to Mr. Burke with as much confidence as if he had 
known that gentleman all his life; and they set out together, 
Joe himself bearing one of the firm’s pies wrapped in a bit of 
brown paper, for a contribution to the evening meal. “We’ve 
got an old Mexican woman that makes ’em for us,” he ex¬ 
plained; “and I guess they’re clean — they haven’t poisoned 
anybody yet, anyway.” 

The Jeffersons were living in an humble quarter of the 
town in a Mexican house which must have sheltered half-a- 
dozen other families. Any number of domestic offices, from 
plucking chickens for to-morrow’s dinner to spanking re- 


366 


NATHAN BURKE 


calcitrant babies, were going on in the patio as we entered; a 
pretty young Mexican girl who was watering the plants 
looked up with a smile and flashing white teeth, and a rather 
coquettish side-glance of big black eyes. “ That’s Metta —• 
a — a girl I know,” said young Jefferson, reddening slightly; 
“she — she teaches me Spanish.” Captain Burke benevo¬ 
lently repressed an impulse to ask what else she taught him; 
he had a fellow-feeling for the young man — does not all the 
world love a lover ? And we went up the stone steps leading 
to the inner balcony around the second floor of the establish¬ 
ment, which seems to be a universal feature of Mexican archi¬ 
tecture; and Jefferson’s mother came out and welcomed us 
with a manner so kind and dignified and gracious that one of 
us, who, to tell the truth, had been wondering what an actress 
would be like, felt at once a touch of shame, and a great ad¬ 
miration. Captain Burke, who, since this episode, has 
very frequently been asked to describe Mrs. Jefferson, has 
never been able to say more than that she did not strike him 
as a noticeably pretty woman, although it is said she “made 
up” (as they call it) in a royally beautiful style on the stage, 
where, however, he never had the good fortune to see her. 
She had a sweet, tired face, a lovely voice, a great deal of 
perfectly natural and spontaneous grace in movement. I do 
not think the richest or most exalted people in the world could 
have offered a more charming hospitality than Mrs. Jefferson 
contrived with the very little that she had; and I am afraid 
Mr. Burke sat down to their supper and that famous pie with 
scarcely any pressing in disgraceful eagerness. It was weeks 
since the young fellow had seen anything like an American 
home, or spoken to a woman. Long afterwards his hostess 
told him, with her kind and gentle laughter, that his delight 
was almost pathetic. — “And really, General (it’s general 
now, isn’t it?), our table was awful — cracked chinaj and 
not enough plates to go around, and hardly anything to 
put on the plates ! ” Burke remembered it as one of the best 
meals he ever ate in his life; and he stayed an unconscionable 
time after it, talking to her on the balcony, while the stars 
came out and looked down into the little courtyard, and 
young Joseph, having stolen off, was whispering at his 
sweetheart’s window — in Spanish, no doubt — somewhere 
below us. 


SOME NEW FRIENDS AND ONE OLD ONE 367 


The captain took his way thence, intending to find a berth 
for himself in some sort of rooming-house in the Calle Gua- 
najuato, which Ridgely had pointed out to him as a likely 
place earlier in the day. There was still a crowd abroad 
as he walked along — in the middle of the street, as had been 
enjoined upon him. An unnecessary precaution, Burke 
thought; the streets were not much darker than those at 
home, where, as yet, there were no gas-lamps, and the people 
no different from those one might have seen at this hour in 
certain quarters of his own city — all kinds of men, and one 
kind of women. As a matter of fact he got no notice, hostile 
or otherwise, from either, until, reaching a corner, he stood 
still for a second in a little uncertainty about the right direc¬ 
tion, looking up and down. There was a lamp bracketed 
against the angle of the building high up overhead; he re¬ 
membered afterwards, with a curious nicety, the look of the 
plastered wall tinted a strong pink, with a barred window 
surrounded by a make-believe cornice and mouldings painted 
on the flat surface like a drop-scene in a theatre; across the 
narrow way there was a pulque-shop, “El Sueno De Amor” 
daubed in flourishing black letters over the door. A woman 
came out from the shadows of a near-by alley, and touched 
him on the arm. She almost immediately shrank back, some 
speech which she had been beginning arrested in inarticulate 
sound; she shrank back against the pink wall, the scarf over 
her head fell down, she stared at him with a ghastly face. 
Nathan looked at her, startled; he made a step forward — a 
step back. 

“Nance!” he cried out; “Nance!” 


CHAPTER III 

Matamoros 


She did not answer, and for one swift moment Burke 
fancied he must be mistaken. “I — I thought it was — I 
thought I knew —” he began to mumble; the words died in 
his throat in an inexpressible confusion of doubt, wonder, 
reluctant certainty, formless dismay. She moved as if to 
put up her hands before her cheeks — which bloomed with 
a pitiful unnatural red color under the direct light — then 
let them drop as suddenly. “ Nance!” said Burke again, 
involuntarily lowering his voice as he gazed into her pallid 
face .— pallid with all its mock roses — and her great eyes. 
Merciful God, what feeling was it of heart-sickening sus¬ 
picion and shame and distress that prompted him to that 
secrecy ? 

“I didn’t know it was you, Nat,” she said in an under¬ 
tone, too. She paused, perhaps to collect herself, and then 
spoke quite firmly and deliberately: “I just thought it was 
an officer — one of the officers, I didn’t know which one — 
I just saw it was one of the officers in the army.” 

“What do you want with — what are you doing here?” 
said Nathan, hoarsely. The question came unwilled to his 
lips; it was so he greeted her after all these years ! 

“I guess you know,” said Nance. She pulled her scarf, 
a cheap black lace thing affecting the Spanish style, up over 
her head and her black glossy hair, carefully dressed with a 
red artificial rose and gilt gewgaws stuck amongst the braids, 
straightening the folds with a kind of mechanical coquetry. 
“If I’d thought quick enough, I’d have got away before you 
had a chance to see who it was. But I was kind of taken 
by surprise. I thought you was just some one of the offi¬ 
cers —” 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Nance, don’t say that again — don’t 
say it!” the young man burst out, almost with a sob. The 
cabin, the camp-fire, the serene forest, Darnell with his 

368 


MATAMOROS 


369 


rifle, the girl in her red cotton frock — old, old scenes and 
memories rushed upon him; he felt a kind of agony of weak 
compassion, miserable and helpless regret. Of the two, this 
poor painted, bedecked, and not penitent Magdalen was by 
far the more composed — or, perhaps, whatever her real 
emotion, she concealed it with the drilled and painful du¬ 
plicity of women. She looked at him silently without either 
embarrassment or defiance. I suppose Mrs. Ducey would 
have called her utterly shameless; yet no manner could have 
been less brazen, farther removed from what is commonly 
figured as that of the courtesan. She seemed, after the first 
instant, to have accepted the situation, and to expect Burke 
to accept it with a like philosophy. At the time of her 
father’s death she had betrayed something of the same dis¬ 
torted fatalism — to call it that — and the girl of five or 
six years ago was strangely visible in the woman of to-day. 
Whatever Nance’s faults, dishonesty was not one of them; 
when Nathan asked her what she was doing, she answered 
with as much plainness of speech and manner (more, indeed, 
than it has been possible to convey here) as a woman ever 
employs towards a man — too plainly, at least, to be misin¬ 
terpreted. He had known her since both of them could 
remember, a brother could not have been nearer to her; one 
ready lie might have made all smooth, so many men and 
most women would have thought — and she never thought 
to utter it. The only alternative that occurred to her was 
that of running away; and that chance lost, she knew no 
devices to spare herself, and asked for no quarter. 

They stood looking at each other for a long minute in 
silence; then, as she turned slowly away, Nathan followed 
her with a gesture. “Nance, where are you going?” 

“Home, I guess. Back where I live, I mean.” 

He fell into step by her side. “You are living here?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where?” asked Burke, aware of some subtle change in 
her manner; she began to walk so hurriedly he had to 
lengthen his stride to keep up with her. And at the last 
question she hesitated perceptibly before answering: — 

“ It’s — it’s up the street — off there. It’s a good ways — ” 

“I’ll go with you — I want to see you—” Burke was 
beginning, when, to his bewilderment, she stopped short. 


370 


NATHAN BURKE 


cowering away as if he had offered to strike her. They had 
left the zone of lamplight, and he could see her face only 
imperfectly in the dusk, but there was no mistaking her 
attitude of almost frenzied repugnance and entreaty. She 
clasped and wrung her hands together, her voice came in 
a kind of hoarse shriek. “Oh, Nat, Nat Burke — not you! 
Oh, please , Nathan, oh, please go away, oh, please go back —” 
she began to cry, with long shuddering gasps like a child. 

“Go away?” repeated Nathan, puzzled and moved and, 
in fact, rather frightened. “ Why ? What for ? Don’t 
cry that way, Nance, don’t — you’ll hurt yourself. Do you 
think I care what kind of a place you live in ? Don’t you 
want me to see it? I — I just wanted to know how—* 
how it happened. If you’d rather not talk to me — if 
you’d rather I didn’t know — if it’s too hard for you to tell 
me, you know — I’ll go away. Only you know nothing 
you could do or say or — or be could make any difference 
in the way I’ve always felt about you — you believe that, 
don’t you ? Lord Almighty knows I’m not so good I can 
set myself up to judge people!” said the young fellow, awk¬ 
wardly enough, but in all earnestness and humility. He 
was afraid lest something he had said or left unsaid, in the 
pain and confusion of their meeting, might have seemed to 
her an assumption of the judge’s attitude — than which 
nothing could have been farther from his mind. Let him 
that is without sin cast the first stone. 

The words seemed to quiet her; her sobs and ejaculations 
ceased at last. “ I guess I’m kind of half crazy, Nat,” she 
said brokenly; “ I might have known you wouldn’t want — 
but I’ve — I’ve got to thinking of that the first thing — I 
-— I can’t help it, Nathan. I’ve just got into that way of 
thinking. A person does, you know - - a woman, I mean — 
that — that lives the way I do. You can’t get away from 
it — it’s just like all the men was brutes — and the women, 
too, for that matter. There don’t seem to be anything else — 
only just that. ^People don’t know—” and a great deal 
more in the same incoherent and hysterical strain which 
Burke put down to overwrought nerves and a shattered 
body, as he walked by her side and listened to her. He could 
make nothing sensible out of it at the time, except that she 
seemed to think she must apologize for her seizure; and it 


MATAMOROS 


371 


was not until long afterwards, in recalling this conversation, 
every word of which he will remember to his dying day, that 
comprehension came slowly to him — with a wretched shame 
and self-abasement — of what the poor thing meant, of what 
she had momentarily supposed him capable. 

The house where Nance lived was in one of the water¬ 
side streets — I have forgot the name, if indeed I ever no¬ 
ticed it — with another pulque-shop under the corner, 
“La Lluvia de Oro” this time — a name in which one might 
discern a ghastly appropriateness — whence issued a one- 
eyed and dreadfully pock-marked wretch who opened the 
heavy wooden doors into the patio with many leers, winks, 
and nods; and — Burke having given him a piece of money 
for performing this office — called unprintable good wishes 
after the couple as they ascended the stone steps. At the 
stair-head a fat hag, hanging over the iron balustrade, doubt¬ 
less to take stock of the prey her foragers had brought in, 
bestowed a cataloguing glance on the officer; and presently 
after a servant came with champagne to the door of the room. 
There was no lack of feasting and drinking, laughter and 
music, and gaudy decorations within those accursed walls. 
Nance told Burke she had been there for two weeks. She 
had come with a party of — of actors. 

“What! You were with those people?” Nathan cried 
out. “Why, I saw them — I saw them pass in their steam¬ 
boat. I was standing on the docks down at Camp Belknap 
— down at the river mouth.” 

“I know,” said Nance, nodding; “that was the people. 
But I didn’t see you, Nat. Maybe I was in the cabin. I 
don’t know that I’d have known you unless I was close to, 
anyhow. You look a lot older, and then being in uniform 
changes a man’s looks. I didn’t know you was with the 
army. Them people I was with, they ain’t actors — them 
women ain’t — there’s pretty near all of ’em in this house 
right now. They ain’t any more actors than I am. We’d 
come over from N’Orleans because of the army being here. 
They was two men brought the lot.” 

“Where had you been before that?” 

“Why in N’Orleans in a — house there, you know. Oh, 
you mean before that f Why, I don’t know — everywheres 
I guess — ever so many places — I had, anyway. Don’t 


372 


NATHAN BURKE 


you want some champagne, Nathan ? Oh, well, you needn’t 
to, then, if you don’t want.” She put the bottle down with 
a miserable reluctance. “I —I drink some — I drink about 
as much as Pap useter, Nat, — I — you get to doing it, 
you know — you can’t help yourself—” 

“ I understand,” said Nat, unhappily, 

“I like the taste, though — at least I did to begin with. 
You know Pap didn’t care nothing about how it tasted. 
But I don’t reckon he’d ever drunk any champagne. It 
kind of fixes you up when you ain’t feeling good. And I 
ain’t feeling good a good part of the time, Nathan. I’m 
tired. When you’re that way, you’ve got to have something. 
It don’t last, of course; nothing lasts, I guess,” she finished 
musingly. 

Burke thought with a pang of sorrowful apprehension as he 
sat looking at her that this dreary aphorism might well 
apply to poor Nance’s own term of days in a world which 
had not treated her too kindly. She was very thin, and as 
he now began to notice, coughed with a slight persistent 
cough; her features had sharpened to a kind of hard delicacy, 
there was a hollow at either temple where the blue vein 
stood out distressingly; in this moment of repose she looked 
quite old — old and haggard — yet she was a year younger 
than himself. She sat in a sibyl-like attitude with her 
black drapery, her white and tinted face, her chin in one 
hand, her gloomy eyes fixed — alas! — on the tin-foiled 
bottle of wine. The lamp on the table threw a dingy halo 
about her; it could not conquer the shadows of the high, 
cold, shabbily gorgeous room, and Nance’s slender figure in 
a garish travesty of the Mexican costume, all flaring colors, 
fringes, and paste jewelry, made the young man think of the 
last flame leaping red and vivid upon some dim ash-heap. 
A little longer and that unstable fire would flicker out in the 
awful darkness that awaits both saint and sinner. 

“Where did you go, Nance, when you — you went away 
first, you know?” he asked. “I hunted for you high and 
low, as soon as I heard about — about what had happened. 
But that wasn’t till a month afterwards.” 

“I knew you was hunting, — knew it all the time. I hid. 
I didn’t want you to find me,” she answered apathetically. 

“You hid? From me?” 


MATAMOROS 


373 


“Yes, I hid. What good would it have done your finding 
me ? By that time, anyhow ? Lots of people could have 
told you, only they wouldn’t — you might have knowed 
they wouldn’t. They ain’t any use trying to find out any¬ 
thing from ’em. That old White-Hat Sam, he could have 
told you for one. ’Most everybody around where he lived 
in them houses — houses like this — knew, but they weren’t 
going to tell. They never tell anything. ’Twasn’t any use 
your asking. Is White-Hat Sam alive yet, Nathan ?” 

“I don’t know whether he is or not, the villain — the 
-old villain,” Burke said, groaning out a curse in his help¬ 
less pain and anger. 

She looked at him evidently surprised. “Why, what are 
you down on poor old White-Hat for ? He was real good 
to me. Oh, you think he — he led me astray, like the 
preachers say ? Well, he didn’t, Nat; I did it myself—” 

“Nance!” 

“I did it myself, I tell you. Nobody could ’a’ made me 
if I hadn’t chosen — why, you know that, Nat Burke. What 
are you looking so for ?” she demanded savagely. “Are you 
thinking about Pap ? Don’t you s’pose I’ve thought about 
him ? He’d have shot me with his old gun that he’s lying 
buried with — he’d have choked me to death with his two 
hands ruther than see me this way — in this place. Don’t 
you s’pose I know that ? Just the same I did it of my own 
free will and accord; there ain’t nobody to blame — that is—• 
unless —” she turned her eyes, which she had kept steadily 
on the lamp during the last part of this speech, towards the 
young man with a movement of sudden violence. “Na¬ 
than!” she said in a voice of desperate, of heart-rending 
appeal; “Nathan, I never stole that breastpin, I never 
stole it, I never touched it. You believe that, don’t you ? 
Nathan, I never lied in my life. You know I didn’t take it, 
you know I didn’t take it.” 

“Why, of course, I know you didn’t, Nance. I never 
thought for a minute that you took it,” said Burke, vigor¬ 
ously. 

She went on, hardly heeding him, with wild gestures, 
trembling all over her poor weak.frame. “Why, what would 
I have wanted with it, a thing like that ? I couldn’t wear 
it — I couldn’t sell it — even if I wasn’t honest — just put 



374 


NATHAN BURKE 


it that way — just say I wasn’t honest — why, I still had 
too much sense to take it. She might know that, seems to 
me. There was a dozen things in the house I could have 
took any time, if I’d wanted — if I’d been that kind. Why 
didn’t I take her money ? I’d had plenty of chances. She 
wouldn’t have missed it as quick and I could have spent 
money.” She stopped abruptly, looking at Burke with a 
tortured face. “I can’t help it, Nat — I get to going over 
and over it that way sometimes when I’m by myself. I’ll 
go crazy yet, I guess — if I don’t die first.” 

“ I know how it was. I went to Mrs. Ducey when I heard. 
But I couldn’t make her think any differently. I guess I 
did more harm than good,” said Nat, sadly. “I’ve often 
wished since that I had — had gone to see you, and — and 
— why, I might have made it kind of easier for you, Nance, 
I believe, knowing all about Mrs. Ducey the way I did —” 

“Why, I don’t know what you could have done, Nathan,” 
said Nance, simply; “person’s got to live their own life, and get 
along the best they can, you know. Mrs. Ducey’s a good 
enough woman. Lord, I ain’t holding it up against her, what 
she done — except times when I get mad at her, thinking about 
it, like I did just now. ’Twasn’t right, Nat. ’Twasn’t fair. 
But there! People can’t be any better than they’re smart 
enough to be. It was hard — it was hard. I was just a wild 
sort of fool girl, you know, Nathan. Why, I thought Mrs. 
Ducey was just an angel from heaven — I’d always been kind 
of crazy about her. I remember Pap laughing at me about 
that. And it was good of her, it was a kind, good thing to 
do to take me and try to make something out of me. She 
could have done it, she could have done it, Nat, if she’d went 
at it different — I was ready to lie down and let her walk 
over me. It’s kind of pitiful to think how I felt about her. 
And she was just as kind to me as she knew how— but, my 
God, Nathan Burke, that ain’t no way to be kind to people, 
like they was dogs. You’ve got to be kind to ’em like they 
was men and women. Soon’s I found out how it was, I 
wanted to pay her back for her kindness — understand ? 
I’d have gone back to the farm, or got another job some- 
wheres, only I wanted for her to get some use out of me, s’long’s 
she thought she was doing so much for me — I wanted to be 
worth my keep to her. Pap wouldn’t have had me beholden 


MATAMOROS 


375 


to nobody. Hadn’t been for that I wouldn’t have stayed 
after the first two-three months. Nathan, I done my 
very best. I worked hard — I tried to do the way she 
wanted — I tried to please her — I couldn’t stand that boy 
of hers — I never heard of anybody that could — but I done 
my best. And Mr. Ducey is a real kind man, too, Nat. I 
guess you know that. He ain’t smart, but he means well. 
He sorter stood up for me ’bout the breastpin — but it didn’t 
do any good.” She had to pause in a paroxysm of cough¬ 
ing. Nathan, listening, was conscious only of pity when 
I suppose the knowledge of what Nance had become, of the 
depths to which she had fallen in spite of the opportunities 
she had had to rise, ought to have filled him with horror and 
aversion. Not one good, or, as the phrase goes, honest 
woman on earth would have spoken to her — would have 
touched her with a pair of tongs ! — much less sympathized 
with her. Yet to his perverted view, she was not wholly 
blamable, wholly corrupt. She was willing; she was rea¬ 
sonable; she had the root, at least, of humanity and justice, 
he thought. And that she plainly felt the disgrace of imputed 
theft so keenly, and the disgrace of her present position not 
at all, was one of those contradictions which are still, some¬ 
way, somehow, perfectly comprehensible. 

She went on, prompted by a question now and then, but 
for the most part talking with a freedom that probably 
relieved her. After being turned away from Governor 
Gwynne’s, she had found another place only to be discharged 
again in about a week’s time. Her story seemed to be 
common property by this, and dogged her unerringly. It 
was the kitchen-and-backstairs-gossip of the whole town. 
“Them things get around like everything, Nat,” she said, 
without any show of anger or resentment, however; rather 
as stating a curious and noteworthy fact. “I reckon Mrs. 
Ducey thought she never told anybody — I guess she didn’t 
mean to — but it’s awful easy for stories like that to get 
started and keep going and getting worse as they go. All 
them servants at Gwynne’s knew, and of course they told 
their friends and they told — and so it went. “Nance 
Darnell ? Why, she’s the girl that stole a lady’s breastpin, 
or diamond necklace, or trunkful of gold dollars, or Lord 
knows what!” One place the lady said she’d heard ’bout me 


376 


NATHAN BURKE 


stealing that solid silver tea-service, and she was surprised 
my showing my face in an honest person’s house. The last 
place I was in — ’twas a boarding-house — was kep’ by a 
big, fat woman with an awful tongue, but she was kinder 
than some. I stayed there a little longer than at most all 
of the other places. She came in the kitchen the second 
day I was there, and when she got a chanst, when there 
wasn’t nobody else round, she says, kind of looking at me 
hard: ‘Ain’t you the Darnell girl that there’s such a rowdy- 
dow about?’ I said, ‘Yes, I am.’ She sort of waited for a 
minute and when I didn’t say anything, she says: ‘Well, 
speak up, can’t you ? What have you got to say ? ’ I said, 
‘I ain’t got anything to say, Mrs. Doane; I’ll leave just as 
soon as I get these dishes washed up.’ ‘I didn’t say for you 
to go,’ she says, still just as rough as could be. ‘I want you 
to tell me ’bout it. I don’t b’lieve all the stories I hear 
passed around,’she says. ‘Seems to me they make out like 
you done too much. If you was as bad as they say, you’d 
’a’ been in the Pen long ago. Now you tell me your side.’ 
So I told her. She sat and studied awhile, then she says: 
‘Well, Nance, I guess you can stay here. I guess I’ll risk 
you.’ Nathan, I done what I never done before, and I ain’t 
hardly ever done since, but when she said that, I begun to 
cry. She was real good, that woman was. 

“All the same, Nat, you know it wouldn’t do — you know 
how things are. In a little the boarders got to knowing 
about me, and then every time one of ’em missed a shoe- 
button — don’t you see ? Mrs. Doane come and told me 
herself, and she felt bad because she — she believed in me, 
and she wanted to help me. ‘But Nance,’ she says, ‘’tain’t 
any use. If any of ’em should lose something, they’d blame 
it on you right off. They’d say you took it if it couldn’t 
be found; and if it was found, they’d say you put it back 
because you was scairt. I can’t help it — I got to let you 
go — I hate to—it’s a dog-mean thing to do — but it’s my 
bread-and-butter, you know. I’ve got to live, and I got to 
keep this boarding-house, and I can’t have the people feel¬ 
ing that way. But,’ she says/ I’m going to give you a letter 
to a friend of mine that lives over to Newark, and she’ll 
take you in and give you a place in her house, and nobody 
knows anything about you over there, nor they don’t need 


MATAMOROS 


377 


to know!’ She give me a dollar, too, Nat, when I went 
away. And she didn’t have much either, pore woman — 
it’s a dog’s life, keeping boarders.” 

Nance paused again; and a great gust of laughter, men’s 
and women’s voices together, the screaking of a fiddle, and 
a dog yelping in a melancholy cadence at some door not 
far distant, broke in upon them. Burke doubted if his com¬ 
panion heard it; she sat silent for so long even after the 
noise had died down that he at last said, “So then you went 
to Newark?” 

She started, looked at him with a vague smile, and shook 
her head. “No, I didn’t go, Nat. I could’a’gone, of course; 
and mebbe I’d ’a’ got into some good people’s home — 
mebbe. You can’t tell. Mebbe it would have been the 
same thing over again, I didn’t feel’s if I could stand any 
more of that. I was tired-like. There ain’t much a girl 
can do with a thing like that sort of hanging over her the 
everlasting time, you know. You can’t get away from it 
if you’re a girl like a man can. Man can pick up and go 
anywheres a thousand mile off — yes, you could go barefoot, 
and sleep in a haystack, and work your way on a keel-boat, 
and nobody wouldn’t think anything of it, nor pay no Men¬ 
tion to how you did. But a girl all alone —first thing folks 
want to know is who is she, and where’d she come from and 
what was she doing the last place she was at ? Seems funny, 
a girl can’t begin to do half the harm a man can, and 
people are ever so much more scared of her ! I said thanky 
to Mrs. Doane, and I went away and I ain’t never seen her 
since. I s’pose she thinks I wasn’t any good after all, an’ 
a thief spite of everything I tried to make her b’lieve. 

“At first I wasn’t quite certain but what I’d go to New¬ 
ark. Only I’d had to walk, you know, because I didn’t 
have no money for to hire a seat in the coach; and Newark’s 
a good piece off, sixty or seventy mile I reckon. I remember 
it was kind of freezin’ weather with slush on top of the ice 
— ’twas in January. I remember thinking ’bout how it 
was getting along towards Miss Gwynne’s wedding-day; 
I’d heard ’em say how she was to be married sometime in 
January. ’Twasn’t extra good weather for a bride. I 
walked around a good while kind of planning and studying 
’bout Newark — I had to walk the street, you know—I 


378 


NATHAN BURKE 


didn’t have nowhere to go. They was a place I’d gone to 
before in between whiles when I didn’t have a job, but the 
woman she told me she didn’t have no room for me this time, 
and I knew ’twas because she’d heard, and she didn’t keer 
for to have me in the house. She knew my name — I never 
lied to anybody ’bout it. I just walked ’round. Some¬ 
times I’d go into a store and set by the stove and warm my¬ 
self for a spell; but I didn’t like to much, because I didn’t 
have but a dollar-seventy-five — my wages and what Mrs. 
Doane give me — and I couldn’t buy anything, and the 
young men they had clerking would come and ask me what 
I wanted, and when I said I didn’t want nothing, they’d look 
kind of queer. And I got a notion mebbe some of ’em knew 
’bout me. If they did, they’d be scairt I’d take something, 
and I thought they watched me pretty close. Seems like 
I must ’a’ walked miles and miles that day — pretty nigh 
enough to get me to Newark, if I’d started that way, I 
wouldn’t wonder. Then first you know it come dark — the 
days is awful short, you know, in winter — and there I was, 
and all to oncet I remembered I hadn’t et nothing since 
morning. I’d been thinking so hard I hadn’t noticed where 
I was going, but when I looked up ’twas Water Street. It’s 
a quiet-looking street in day-time, you know. I set down 
on a doorstep.” 

“You didn’t know what kind of a—” 

“Yes, I did, Nathan,” she said patiently; “I told you 
before — I knew all about what I was doing. I knew j ust what 
kind of a name the street had. I was plumb tired out, and 
it was dark — blind-man’s holiday, you know — so’s nobody 
could see me very well, and if they did, what difference would 
it make ? Them people wouldn’t care, nor me neither. I 
set there, and I b’lieve I must have dozed off, for all to oncet 
I felt somebody take me by the shoulder and give me a shake, 
only not rough, you know, just a right smart shake to wake 
me up, and says: ‘ Say, what you doing here? What’s the 
matter of you ? Get up ! ’ When I got good and waked up, 
I see it was a woman, all dressed to kill, with a bunnit on with 
feathers, and a long gold chain and watch, and a fur cape and 
muff — sables, they was — and a laylock-colored silk dress; 
she was painted, too; I could see her face because somebody 
had opened the door, and the hall-lamp was lit and shining 


MATAMOROS 


379 


straight on her. She wasn't very young — she had a false 
front. They was elegant chairs and things in the hall, too. 
I said, ‘Ma’am, was I asleep?’ sort of dumb like. For a 
minute I couldn’t remember where I was. ‘Asleep !’ she 
says; ‘well, I reckon you was, and sound too. Y’ain’t 
drunk. What you setting there for ? You don’t b’long 
here.’ I ast her if it was her house. She says: ‘Yes, it’s 
mine. Who you looking for?’ ‘Nobody,’I says; ‘I ain’t 
got anywhere to go, that’s all, so I just set down on your step 
for to rest. I didn’t know whose house it was. I didn’t 
mean to go to sleep.’ ‘Well, I should hope not,’ says the 
woman. ‘You’d ’a’ froze to death in an hour or so. What 
you mean by you ain’t got anywhere to go ? Where’s your 
folks ? ’ I told her I didn’t have none. 1 My God, you ain’t 
got anybody ? ’ she says. And then kinder sudden: ‘ Here, turn 
’round to the light. Let’s look at you!’ They was two-three 
more women some of ’em dressed up and some in frowsy 
double-gowns come out of the doors into the hall, and looking 
and listening by that time. She looked at me for a spell, and 
then says: ‘You’re a right nice-looking girl, my dear, to be 
out like this, lying ’round on doorsteps in the cold. Where’s 
your friend, you know? Mebbe I know him.’ I said, ‘I 
ain’t got any friend, ma’am.’ She kinder laughed, and said: 

‘ Oh, I know all about that. I mean your gentleman friend, 
you know. Was you looking for him? I know a lot of gentle¬ 
men, and I wouldn’t wonder if I’ve met him. What’s his 
name? You needn’t be afraid of me, my dear.’ I kept on 
saying I hadn’t any friend like that, so at last she said: 
‘Well, never mind, if you don’t want to tell. You can just 
come inside anyhow, and get warm.’ So I went in.” 

Nance stopped; she got up to adjust the lamp which had 
begun to smoke, and resumed her seat, absently stroking 
down the folds of her skirt. She raised her eyes and met the 
young man’s expectant face with a shadowy surprise, and 
then comprehension. 

“I went in, Nat,” she repeated with a kind of gentle dis¬ 
tinctness. “That’s all. There ain’t any more to tell. I 
went in.” 

There was another very long silence. 

“They hounded you out of their houses. And you were 
cold and starving,” Burke contrived to say at last. She 
made a slight negative gesture. 


380 


NATHAN BURKE 


“You want to make out like I couldn’t help it. But no¬ 
body made me do it — I done it myself, just like I’ve been 
telling you. I was cold and hungry, but I guess I could ’a’ 
made out a little longer, only — the other was easier, I ’spose. 
It’s kinder hard for you to understand, I guess, Nathan, but 

— why, women ain’t near so good as men think they are, nor 
as they think they are theirselves. Women like Mrs. Ducey 
now, they just don’t want to know ’bout ’emselves right deep 
down — they’d be as mad as fury if anybody told ’em the 
truth. But it’s this way ’bout men and women: a man’s got 
to work or die — that’s all there is about it. But a woman 
down in the bottom of her heart she’s always thinking — yes, 
even if she don’t know it, she’s thinking just the same — 
‘Well, if the worst comes to the worst, there’s always a way 
for me!’ If you’re Mrs. Ducey’s kind, you just marry 
somebody; if you ain’t — if you’re like me, why —. There 
it is. And as for being wrong, that never stopped ’em yet. 
It’s what people will think and the way they may get treated 
stops ’em. There wasn’t anybody on earth caring for 
me, and that made it easier still — but I might ’a’ done it 
anyhow. Only I didn’t want you to know, Nat; I hoped 
you’d never know.” 

“I don’t see why you didn’t come to me to begin with.” 

She looked at him with an expression that strikingly re¬ 
produced that which he had seen on a dozen other female 
faces whenever he had attempted to explain his interest in 
Nance Darnell. “That wouldn’t have done any good, Na¬ 
than. Can’t you see that ? It don’t do any good for a girl to 
go to a young man when she’s in trouble — it only makes it 
worse. And you couldn’t have persuaded Mrs. Ducey any 
different, anyhow. You said that yourself.” 

“Well, I can help you now surely, Nance,” said Burke, 
earnestly. “Look here, I’ve — I’ve got plenty of money, 
you know. I’ve done pretty well. And I’m just the same 
as your brother. You’d take it from me, wouldn’t you? I 
want you to get out of this place. You can go somewhere, 
and — and live quietly, and nobody need ever know anything 
about your — your life. We’ll find some little quiet place 

— something nice that you’ll like, and — and you can have 
everything you want, and — and — and — ” 

“And keep straight?” said Nance. She eyed him with a 


MATAMOROS 


381 


wistful smile in which there was something almost maternally 
affectionate and forbearing. “ It’s good of you to think of that, 
Nathan — it’s just like you — it's good of you. And I don’t 
believe you’ve got such a power of money either,” she inter¬ 
polated acutely. “But you can’t do it — you can’t take 
care of me.” 

“Why can’t I ?” 

“Because of what people would say, that’s why. S’pose 
anybody’d seen you with me, or coming in here ? What’d 
they think? ” 

“ They could say and think what they pleased,” said Burke, 
impatiently. “I guess I can stand it. Do let me, Nance. 
Let me for my own sake. It would make me kind of square 
with myself. I’ve always felt as if I hadn’t acted right — 
as if I hadn’t done all I could for you. And I promised your 
father I’d take care of you. It’s just as if you were my 
sister — I wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen anywhere with 
you, Nance. You believe that, don’t you?” 

He spoke with warmth, and, as he believed, honestly. 
Nance did not answer for a moment; then she said, irrele¬ 
vantly, “Are you married, Nat?” 

“N-no,” said the young fellow, startled, and feeling the 
color rise in his face. She turned her searching gaze on him. 

“ Engaged ? Yes ? To one of those girls at home ? Which 
one ? What’s her name?” 

Burke stammered in a hideous confusion; his face was on 
fire; he could not meet her steady black eyes, he could not 
look at her. He thought he would have given a year out of 
his life to have been able to force himself to the words; but 
he could not. His head sank down on his breast, as he called 
himself inwardly a coward and a brute. 

“You see,” said Nance, in a final tone, “you can’t even 
make yourself say her name in this house — in this room — 
to me. You can’t do it. That’s the way a man feels about 
his wife and his sister, Nat.” 

“Nance —I—I — ” 

“That’s what your not being ashamed and not caring 
amounts to, you see,” said Nance — not at all reproachfully, 
but with that same air of detached and impersonal observa¬ 
tion which, except in a rare moment or two of excitement, 
she had maintained throughout this interview. 


382 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Nance!” said Burke, miserably; “I —oh, forgive me — 
I —” he fairly put his face in his hands; he could have shed 
tears of shame and pain and helpless anger at himself. 

“Why, Lord, I’m not blaming you, Nathan. Don’t feel 
so bad. You meant it when you said it, only you didn’t 
stop to think. And you want to do for me. But I can’t 
go back and be a — a — be like I was; no more can you 
feel ’bout me’s if I’d always been — kept straight. ’Tain’t 
in natur’. You couldn’t even me up with your wife — you 
couldn’t let your wife know anything ’bout me. You think 
you wouldn’t mind for anybody to know that you was tak¬ 
ing care of me — but would you tell anybody ? You might 
swear yourself black in the face, and would anybody believe 
you that it was — it was all right? I ain’t going to spoil 
your life that way, Nat — I won’t let you spoil it.” 

It was not easy to move her from this position; and strange 
now to Burke to reflect that a character so strong or, at least 
so decided, should ever have committed so sadly irremediable 
an error; and, having committed it and entered upon the 
dark Avernian way, should still possess something of its 
ancient force, undefiled and unweakened. Yet Burke did 
not leave her until he had partially at any rate won his point; 
he made her take enough money to provide for her actual 
wants — more she absolutely refused — and wrung a prom¬ 
ise from her to see him within a few days when he hoped 
to get leave to visit Matamoros again. Day was breaking 
as he left the place; the dogs were slinking away from the 
offal-heaps; there were natives stirring about the streets 
with their blankets up about their eyes, with their sandalled 
feet. He found the house in the Calle Guanajuato where 
the porter had already unbarred the doors; and rolled up in 
his soldier’s overcoat and slept on a bench for an hour until 
the reveille, sounding far and sweet across the river at Fort 
Brown, awoke him. 


CHAPTER IV 
Alarums. Excursions 

All the while that Captain Burke’s small affairs were 
being transacted, and while our gradually increasing army 
lay at the Brazos, at Camp Belknap, at Burito, sweltering 
and shivering by turns, bragging, squabbling, drilling, sky¬ 
larking, contracting dysentery, camp-fever, and a dozen other 
ills — making trial, in a word, of the pleasures and hard¬ 
ships incident to the paths of glory — all this while history 
was marching forward, and those tolerably weighty events 
were coming to pass which you may read about to-day, set 
forth in a single short paragraph of Johnny’s school-book. 
The young gentleman himself considers it pretty dull stuff, 
I dare say; although he is a well-meaning boy, he can hardly 
keep awake to memorize it. I never yet fell in with a pupil 
of any grade from Primary up to the closing year of High 
School who knew a thing in the world about the Mexican 
War, or, to tell the dismal truth, cared. Why should they? 
The most of us took very little interest in our adversary, 
and felt no slightest enmity towards him, even in the heat of 
the quarrel. It is all over these forty years; we have forgot 
it in the stress of our own private troubles. The widows 
and orphans of ’46-’47 have passed, or are passing with their 
generation; the battlefields are grown up in “chaparral,” 
for what I know. We have made friends with the Republic 
across the Rio Grande, and it is a good thing to wipe the slate 
clean. Even General Burke (Bvt.), who prides himself on a 
ready and accurate memory, and who thought he could 
recall in detail everything of importance that took place 
during those years, was astonished to find, upon taking up 
our little fellow’s book the other day, how far astray were 
his vaunted recollections. Such is a young man’s absorp¬ 
tion in his own personal concerns, that while, as has been 
seen, Burke remembers most vividly and faithfully what 

383 



384 


NATHAN BURKE 


happened under his own eye and touched him nearly, he is 
quite incapable of a general view, as one might call it, of 
the great events of the day. For an excuse it ought to be 
noted that the news we got in camp, whether full or scanty, 
was alike perfectly unreliable and contradictory, now for 
peace, now for war, now bloody and terrible, now merely 
inane. A score of armies of our size could not have per¬ 
formed the manoeuvres General Taylor was credited with 
projecting; nor could a score of General Taylors have been 
in the different places he was supposed to be, or said the 
different things fathered upon him. We wearied of this 
mad gossip; we cared more about letters from home than 
for the whole tribe of Presidents, Cabinets, and Generals . 1 
Supposing Ampudia were advancing from Monterey to over¬ 
whelm us ? The report might or might not be true — we 
knew for a certainty that the baby had cut a tooth. Say 
we were to march on Monterey to-morrow — and what of 
that ? The south field had yielded thirty bushels to the 
acre, by thunder ! It was towards the end of August, I 
think, that we got the news — true for once! — of another 
revolution in that unfortunate country we were come to 
conquer. Paredes was a prisoner; Gomez Farias had been 
declared provisional president; Santa Anna was again at the 
head of the army. Santa Anna! Maybe we'd have some 
fighting now! Men, remember the Alamo! Captain Burke 
was not one-half so interested in this report as in the dire 
fact that our mail from the States had been lost, or the 
carriers attacked, robbed, and murdered on the road. 

Before and during the five or six weeks when the volun¬ 
teers were arriving, some detachments of regular troops under 
Colonel Garland, Lieutenant-colonel Wilson, and others had 
advanced up the river and into the country; and were now 
occupying the Mexican towns of Reynosa, Mier, Camargo, 
and various scattered outposts which had been surrendered 
to them with little or no resistance. Many times, it was 
said, the village would clear out, bag and baggage, officers 
and men, padre, alcalde, citizens, dogs, and donkeys, upon 

1 1 remember being told in this connection by the officer in charge 
of our regimental mail that fully nine-tenths of the men’s letters 
were addressed to women. — N. B. 


ALARUMS. EXCURSIONS 


385 


our approach — a proceeding which naturally increased that 
feeling of contempt which already filled the breast of every 
right-minded volunteer. Perhaps the regulars could have 
corrected some of our notions; but these gentry came and 
went with an air of attending strictly to their own business, 
seldom foregathering with the militia, and evidently in ex¬ 
pectation that the brunt of the fighting would fall to them — 
as, indeed, in some instances it did. I have seen a hard, 
silent, experienced old sergeant — who, by-the-way, kept his 
accoutrements in better order, his quarters cleaner, and him¬ 
self infinitely more comfortable than the smartest of our 
volunteers, without nearly so much trouble — I have seen 
one of these standing by or lounging on a bench, listening with 
something like a smile on his leathery old countenance to a 
squad of lads, the Arkansas, Pennsylvania, or Kentucky 
Infantry, very likely, mowing down whole regiments of Mexi¬ 
cans in prospective, enacting prodigies of valor, and “ conquer¬ 
ing a peace ’’—which was the catchword of those days — 
with hardly a blow from the other side. “Don't the Mexi¬ 
cans ever fight ?" Burke one day asked a veteran of this class. 
He saluted, “Yes, sir," he said — and that was all he said. 
Lieutenant Ridgely (being pressed) had been overheard to 
admit that it was “pretty hot" at Palo Alto; and someone 
told Burke that the “Garda Costa" battalion, recruited at 
Tampico, had fought “ like devils," and out of their whole 
number, two hundred and fifty, had left two hundred on the 
field. Nevertheless, amongst the thousand-and-one rumors 
that sped about the camp, the only one that never gained 
credence was that which attributed a particle of courage and 
spirit to our enemy. 

Lieutenant Ducey, a prodigious fire-eater, as we have seen, 
never lost an opportunity of expressing his impatience to be 
on the move against these poltroons; it would have been a 
war of extermination if George had had his way; and I be¬ 
lieve he considered our general’s just and merciful policy 
towards the natives as a mere exhibition of the latent weak¬ 
ness of Taylor’s character. “ Perfectly absurd, Burke, perfect 
Tom-foolishness, this pampering of the Mexicans, and effort 
to conciliate them — ‘ order ... all his command to observe 
with the most scrupulous respect the rights of the inhabitants 
who may be found in peaceful prosecution of their occupa- 
2c 


386 


NATHAN BURKE 


tions’— and all the rest of it,” said George, quoting from 
those famous field orders of the general’s, with high scorn and 
indignation. “ Aren’t we in a conquered country, I’d like 
to know —” 

“Not quite conquered yet, George,” said Burke, with a 
laugh, as he stropped his razor. 

“Pooh, just as good as conquered. Rights , hey? These 
people haven’t any rights — any that civilized warfare would 
take any notice of, anyway. They aren’t fit for rights — 
they couldn’t run the government to save ’em. And here’s 
another place where he says: ‘Whatever may be needed for 
the use of the army will be bought . . . and paid for at the 
highest prices.’ The idea of having that printed in Spanish 
and English and circulating it all over the country ! It 
fairly offers a prize to the Mexican who can stick us for the 
most money. Why, Taylor don’t seem to know the first 
thing about war ! He ought to subsist the army by foraging; 
he ought just to take what he wants wherever he can find it. 
That’s the way to carry on war. And that’s what Secretary 
Marcy wants him to do anyhow; the War Department’s 
told him so over and over again — don’t do any good, he just 
bulls right ahead his own way. It’s my opinion Taylor’s not 
the brightest man in the world, Burke, not — not a heavy - 
weight, you know. He’s throwing away Uncle Sam’s money, 
that’s what he’s doing — spending money that ain’t his, by 
jingo! I’ve got my opinion about any man that’ll do that!” 
said the severe George, who certainly could not be accused of 
encouraging the Mexicans in their extortionate practices 
by any particular free-handedness on his own part. As 
usual it was impossible to say what became of George’s 
money, yet he was chronically out of pocket and in debt. 
And he now added, after a moment of silence in which he sat 
on the edge of Burke’s camp-cot, watching the latter gentle¬ 
man shave himself by a little tin-like mirror suspended from 
the ridge-pole of the tent, “Say, you got any money, Nat ?” 

“I guess so — some — not very much,” said Burke, tool¬ 
ing carefully around his chin. He had, in fact, parted with 
all he could conveniently spare to his poor friend at Mata- 
moros, and had been calculating on the arrival of pay-day, 
due, we understood, in a week or so, with a rather abnormal 
impatience. [Perhaps, in justice to both young men, it 


ALARUMS. EXCURSIONS 


387 


should be noted here that, owing to departmental inex¬ 
perience or incompetency, the pay of our troops throughout 
this war was very delayed, irregular, and uncertain. I re¬ 
call one period of eight months when the men were without 
their wages. And whereas the sensible, and one would sup¬ 
pose the natural, course would have been to send us gold, 
we received on more than one occasion drafts which we were 
obliged to cash, at a ruinous discount, with some blood¬ 
sucking native money-changer.] 

(This note seems to have been written at some later date 
than the rest of the manuscript and is on a separate sheet 
of paper, pasted in. M. S. W.) 

“How much do you need ?” Burke asked him. 

“Oh, I don’t know — fifteen or twenty dollars, just to last 
till I get my pay,” said George, who knew, and knew that 
Burke knew, that his pay was already anticipated to the last 
penny. “7 — guess — you — can — let — me — have — it , 
Nathan , hey f” he finished in a voice so charged with meaning, 
and a manner so nearly verging on the peremptory, that the 
captain turned his face from the mirror, and looked down 
upon him, puzzled. 

“I’ll pay you back the minute I get my money, of course — 
you know that, of course, Nat,” George cried, more humbly 
this time, and shrinking from the other’s eyes. 

“Do you owe anybody ?” said Burke, asking his invariable 
question. “If you do, bring me the bill, or tell me who the 
fellow is, and I’ll settle with him if I can. But I tell you flat 
I’m not going to let you have any more money to fool away — 
I can’t afford it. You’ll have to hunt up somebody else to 
borrow from. I don’t know what you do with it, but you 
ought to have more backbone than to borrow this way all the 
time, and then keep these poor devils of Mexicans waiting 
for their wretched little dribs. There’s that fellow in the 
Rifles — that Kentucky man — what’s his name? Burn¬ 
ham ? — have you paid him yet? He told me himself, he 
thinks we’re cousins. Told me you borrowed of him to buy a 
Mexican saddle and bridle, all over silver stuff. What do yo’ 
want with a thing like that? You haven’t any horse. It’s 
time you grew up, George, and got some sense of responsibil¬ 
ity. You’re a good ways off from your mother and father 
now, and you’ve got to strike out for yourself. How do you 


388 


NATHAN BURKE 


suppose they’d like it if they knew you were running in 
debt and getting behind this way right along ? ” He lectured 
his subordinate as if George had been a child indeed; he was 
tired of these petty demands — tired of explaining that 
Lieutenant Ducey was no kin to him; the impossibility of 
talking to George as man to man all at once seemed to him 
exasperating. 

The young fellow sat sulkily looking down at his beauti¬ 
fully polished boots; he was spick and span as customary; a 
splendid fragrance of pomatum floated up from his waved and 
shining black locks. What was going on underneath that 
painstaking coiffure ? Or what agitating the set of faculties 
that did duty for a soul within that squeezed, padded, 
tailored body? After two or three false starts, he said, not 
looking at Burke, in a tone strangely shaken by fright or 
vexation or both. “ You can just leave my father and mother 
out of it, Mr. Nathan Burke, if you please. It’s no business 
of yours what they think about me. You think just because 
you’ve known me all my life you can preach at me all you 
want. You’re a nice person to preach, you are!” 

“ If you know me well enough to keep asking me for money, 
you know me well enough to take what I’ve got to say about 
it,” retorted the captain, epigrammatically. 

“You’d better look at home a little, seems to me, before 
you’re so damn quick about telling other people how they 
ought to be. What’d they think about me, hey ? What’d 
they think about you at home, if they knew ?” 

“If they knew ? If they knew what ? ” 

“Oh, pretend you don’t understand, of course, do! Inno¬ 
cence!” said George, sneering faintly with a ghastly and 
ashen face. He was really terrified, although, Heaven 
knows, Burke had no idea of intimidating him. It was not 
possible to take George’s feeble tantrums seriously. The 
captain hardly listened to him, hardly noticed him; he was 
used to these bursts of spite and nervousness. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, George,” he said, 
gathering up his shaving tools; “I mean what I say, and I’m 
not alluding to your family in any disrespectful way. If 
they—” 

“If they knew about you and that Darnell girl — that 
Nance Darnell, I guess you wouldn’t be quite so high and 


ALARUMS. EXCURSIONS 


38$» 


mighty. How’d you like to have everybody at home know 
that, hey?” shrieked George, desperately. He started up, 
cowering back as if he expected a blow. 

But Burke was thinking of no such thing. For an instant 
he was too surprised at this sudden revelation of George’s 
acquaintance with his movements and affairs to speak, or do 
anything but stare blankly. Yet after all why should George 
not know — why should anybody not know ? He had made 
no effort at concealment. Had he hoped in his inmost heart 
that nobody ever would find out ? The other began to 
breathe less rapidly, even to assume a certain air of com¬ 
manding the situation when he observed the captain’s con¬ 
fusion. For Nat was confused; a hundred emotions besieged 
him — regret — pity for Nance — an angry contempt no 
less for himself than for George — uneasy anticipation — 
the pained consciousness that this was the very thing the 
poor woman had foreseen and warned him of, in her bitter 
intuition that their connection could not be explained with¬ 
out blame. 

“Begin to feel a little differently about it now, I guess?” 
said George, superbly insolent and secure. Nathan made an 
abrupt movement — he was only reassembling his brushes 
and razors — and the other jumped back a foot or more, in a 
panic, clutching and feeling for his side-arms which, for¬ 
tunately, had been laid elsewhere, and were out of his reach. 
Burke could have laughed at another time. 

“Don’t be a fool, George,” he said. “I’m not going to 
hurt you. What is all this talk ? What do you know about 
Nance Darnell ?” 

What George knew, or thought he knew, may be imagined; 
it appeared he had seen the two of them together in Mata- 
moros, on the occasion of Burke’s second visit there, had 
tracked Nance to “La Lluvia de Oro,” and after some in¬ 
quiries, had drawn his own conclusions — natural enough in 
the circumstances, Burke owned inwardly. A great deal 
more which never happened at all the young gentleman 
supplied out of his own fervid fancy; and it occurred to 
Burke with a vivid irony that George might possibly protest 
too much. He was a very naive, high-colored, and incon¬ 
sequent liar; and had not the wit to know that the plain 
truth of what he had seen would serve him better and be far 


390 


NATHAN BURKE 


more deadly unadorned. Nat himself offered no denials or 
explanations, listening without a word; and I dare say it 
would take a wiser man than George Ducey to distinguish 
between innocent silence and guilty silence. I believe in my 
soul we all see what we want to see, even the best disposed of 
us, and close our eyes to the rest. George, at any rate, was 
cock-sure of his inferences. 

“Guess you think differently about some little matters 
now, hey, Burke?” he repeated significantly, after a minute 
or two of this mute reflection on both sides. Nathan looked 
up inquiringly, meeting his eyes, and this time George did 
not flinch. His face took on an indescribable expression at 
once confident and wary. “You wouldn’t much want the 
home folks to know about it, would you?” he suggested. 
“You wouldn’t want Mary Sharpless to know, I guess.” 
And after a slight pause, “Got any money, Nat?” 

Burke smote himself a blow on the knee in a sudden illumi¬ 
nation. “By — the — Lord!” he exclaimed aloud. “Don’t 
jump out of your skin, George. I told you I wouldn’t hurt 
you. It’s only that I couldn’t make out for a minute what 
you were driving at — and I see it now! The idea is that if I 
pay you, you won’t tell on me — isn’t that it ?” 

“Why — I — er — that is — yes — only, of course —” 
George stammered, mightily disturbed by this exceedingly 
undiplomatic plain speaking. The oblique paths were natu¬ 
ral to him; he had not even the courage of his foolishness. 
Nor could Burke stir himself to indignation against so puny a 
creature. 

“This is a bad way to set about getting money, George,” 
he remarked judicially. 

“Why, ain’t you — don’t you — haven’t you got any to 
give me?” queried the other, incredulous. 

Captain Burke arose then; and recalling the vocabulary of 
his earlier days, informed Lieutenant Ducey that’ he would 
see him to — to never mind where — to a locality much 
warmer than Mexico, before he would give, lend, or pay him 
one cent. And furthermore, that the lieutenant had his 
leave to write home anything and everything he something- 
or-other pleased; winding up this highly seasoned harangue 
— which, however, the captain delivered with a very calm 
and moderate voice and a tranquil manner, having a toler- 


AL ARUMS. EXCURSIONS 


391 


able control of himself at all times, and not being an excit¬ 
able man — by inviting George to get out of his tent on the 
instant, which the latter obeyed with a bewildered and down¬ 
cast countenance. 

He had failed as all such blackmailing schemers should 
fail; and Burke almost smiled as he thought of the extraordi¬ 
nary simplicity of all rogues. How can any one, in conscience 
and common sense, be expected to rely on a known rascal 
keeping his bargain ? A man who will sell his silence at one 
time, will sell his information at another, or give it away 
when that suits his purpose. Yet there are rascals confi¬ 
dently attempting to trade on such terms every day — and 
not always unsuccessfully, either. Even Burke, who had 
done no wrong, was not too agreeably moved by the vision 
of what George would undoubtedly write. Nat knew very 
well that if he had friends who would not believe it, there 
were those, not exactly his enemies, who would believe it; 
yet were he to be accused of any other crime in the calendar, 
he thought his character sufficiently well known for nobody 
to believe it! Let who will report you a perjurer, thief, 
murderer or what-not, you will have some defenders; but 
that of which George accused him is the one sin of which no 
man is ever believed guiltless. 

Nance had met him again as she had promised. The poor 
thing had put on a dark, plain dress and washed the paint 
off her thin face, which displayed instead two bright spots of 
fever high up on either cheek-bone, under her cavernous eyes. 
They sat in the alameda in the quiet shadows, and listened to 
the band, and watched half a dozen brown Mexican lads 
playing at bull-fight — one bullet-headed little fellow about 
ten years old performing as the bull with infinite zest, lower¬ 
ing his little black poll and charging the others full tilt, and 
pawing the ground, when the small banderilleros advanced, 
with the utmost dramatic faithfulness. Nance laughed — 
it was the only time Nathan heard her. She was humbly 
happy and content with him until Ridgely passed and — and 
did not see them. 

“That officer knew you, Nat, didn’t he?” she asked a 
moment afterwards, with the uncanny intuition of her sex. 
“ You know him ? ” Burke reluctantly admitted that he did. 


392 


NATHAN BURKE 


“You didn’t either of you speak,” said Nance. “Never 
mind, Nathan, don’t go to making excuses. I — I know why 
you didn’t speak.” And in a little while she said she was 
tired and would like to go “back” — she never called the 
place home. 

“You see how it is, Nat,” she said at the door. “ I thought 
mebbe — mebbe nobody wouldn’t notice me the way I 
look, you know. But I guess ’tain’t any use. It shows — 
it shows no matter what I got on.” She looked down at her 
poor shabby clothes regretfully. “It’s just the way I said, 
you can’t do for me — ’tain’t fair for me to take it off’n you. 
It’ll make you trouble sure as fate. You’d better let me 
go, Nat, you’d orter let me go.” 

“That’s all nonsense, and I’m not going to let you go,” 
said Burke, stoutly. And he left her, I trust, a little heart¬ 
ened by his company and care. It was only a day or so later 
that that interview with George Ducey, which has already 
been recorded, took place. 

Our days in camp began to be full of activity now; the 
floating rumors condensed at last into the definite, authentic 
information that we were to march — we were to move upon 
Camargo, a hundred and twenty-five miles up the river, as 
soon as enough means of transportation could be got together. 
That last was no easy or simple matter; our general “raked 
and scraped the country for miles around collecting every 
pack-mule,” as he afterwards wrote to Washington, from 
whence we had not been adequately prepared; and the dismal 
intelligence was presently published in orders, that, as had 
once before occurred, everybody couldn’t go! “The limited 
means of transportation and the uncertainty in regard to 
supplies . . . imposes upon the commanding general the 
necessity of taking into the field . . . only a moderate por¬ 
tion of the volunteer force now under his orders,” we read 
with long faces, and much anxiety. Of course the regulars 
were to go, of course! Nobody ever doubted that for a 
moment, and their officers were saved many heart-burnings. 
Captain Burke was well-nigh in a fever until he learned —oh, 
blessed news! — that of the twelve companies selected from 
the First Ohio, his was one — owing, most probably, to the 
happy circumstance of its name coming near the top of the 
list in alphabetical order; and we were shortly assigned to 


ALARUMS. EXCURSIONS 


393 


Hamer’s brigade of Butler’s division, which was entirely com¬ 
posed of volunteers — a very invidious distinction, some of 
us thought. And behold how the whirligig of time brings in 
its revenges! Hamer, who, when his name had been con¬ 
sidered for the colonelcy of our regiment, had handsomely 
withdrawn in favor of Mitchell who was a West Point gradu¬ 
ate, had no more than witnessed our departure for the Rio 
Grande than the government elevated him to a brigadier- 
generalship, and he now might bear himself in centurion 
fashion towards our commanding officer — “Do this; and 
he doeth it!” I never heard that there was any bad blood 
between them over this, however; both got through the 
campaign without a great deal of distinction, and it is now a 
good many years since they died, each one in his bed, peace¬ 
ably and ingloriously like the run of us, as if neither had ever 
flourished a sword and headed a charge against the enemies 
of his country. The other brigade-commander in our divi¬ 
sion was General Quitman with the Tennessee regiment, and 
his own Mississippians, as had been foretold for him. Burke’s 
friend, Kennard, and the Baltimore battalion were brigaded 
in Worth’s division of regulars — the only volunteer organi¬ 
zation thus honored; and Kennard was so cocky about it 
that we told him plainly there was no living with him. We 
were all young fellows, adventurous, high-spirited, wildly 
elated at the prospect of action; we wanted to go somewhere, 
anywhere, and take a fall out of the Mexicans; our ultimate 
destination was uncertain, for, as somebody said, “old Taylor 
was as silent as the grave”; but every one was confident 
it was either Monterey or Saltillo. Ampudia — perhaps 
Santa Anna! — was somewhere in our front; his light horse 
and those terrific Mexican Lancers of whom we now began to 
hear for the first time were reported to have been seen in a 
dozen different places, fluttering over the country, and, it 
must be added, scuttling off with amazing expedition for 
such formidable bodies, whenever our heroes appeared. 
Walker, making a reconnoissance in his frontier fashion, had 
got quite close to their camp not far from Mier; McCullough 
had a brush with them a few miles north of Revilla — 
Captain Benjamin McCullough, greatest of scouts, a figure 
something in the style of Mr. Cooper’s “Pathfinder.” Most 
of us were pretty well up in that piece of classic fiction. And 


394 


NATHAN BURKE 


whereas we had all been insufferably proud of our uniforms 
and gilt braid at home, no sooner had we reached the seat of 
war and beheld one of Walker’s or McCullough’s men than 
we were consumed with envy; how we should have rejoiced 
to change places! The Ranger was always a sunburned 
young man, dressed anyhow, booted anyhow, with a slouched 
hat and a slouching gait. He tied a bandanna handkerchief, 
or, failing that, any soiled rag that came handy, about his 
muscular throat; his ammunition-belt sloped in apparent 
carelessness about his waist; he carried a pistol or a rifle as 
best suited him, for every Ranger was a law unto himself in 
that respect. He could ride anything that went on four legs, 
he would as lief fight as eat, he slept, waked, ate, and drank 
at his discretion, addressed his captain as “Ben,” and had no 
more notion of discipline, drill, or manoeuvres than an Ind¬ 
ian. He was a born fighter, but he would fight in his fron¬ 
tiersman’s way — which means that he considered himself 
an army of one man, and planned his campaigns accordingly; 
nor will anybody deny that his way served the circumstances 
well, and had its influence on the fighting-schools of the world. 
Burke, who had been brought up in the backwoods system, 
was not so prejudiced but that he could perceive its disad¬ 
vantages; indeed he had got books of tactics and military 
history and studied them diligently, and tried to inform 
himself, before leaving home. But the old leaven was strong; 
he would not have minded exchanging his shoulder-straps for 
the Rangers’ costume, which seemed to him on the whole 
much more sensible, appropriate, and comfortable for this 
climate and this way of life than the stocks — “black silk 
or leather” — the brimless little caps, and long-skirted coats 
of our equipment. He talked to many of the Rangers, and 
listened to their plain stories of adventure, hardship, reckless 
and entirely unboasted bravery, with the same interest with 
which, as a boy, he had followed Darnell. “How old Jake 
would have liked this!” he sometimes thought with a smile. 

In the midst of their preparations, Captain Burke, with the 
best will in the world, had very little time to spare for his 
private affairs — or at least, for that which concerned him 
most nearly, the girl at Matamoros. What he ought to do 
about her, what was to become of her, gave him not a little 
anxiety when he stopped to consider it; he could not take 


ALARUMS. EXCURSIONS 


395 


her, he disliked to leave her, and she herself displayed a 
stubbornness about accepting his support which complicated 
the question. Once he thought of enlisting Mrs. Jefferson’s 
sympathy, but dismissed the idea with a wry smile; that was 
hopeless, as he knew too well from former experience; no 
virtuous, good woman, no honest woman — as the phrase 
is — would lend a hand to Nance Darnell. It was unfair to 
expect it; they had their own children and families to think 
of, and if for no other reason, must decline association of 
any kind with her. The argument may sound cold-blooded, 
but I should like to hear anybody refute it. Nathan some¬ 
times felt the problem to be without solution, at any rate for 
him, who had a thousand other matters on his mind. The 
condition of his company was not the least of these; he had 
eighteen or twenty men on the sick list; every known dis¬ 
ease had broken out amongst them, it seemed to him, ex¬ 
cept the yellow fever, of which, strangely enough, there never 
was a single case that I know of in the Rio Grande camp. 
And this, too, although we wel*e there in an unhealthy season 
of the year, and the Mexicans were reported to be counting 
on the assistance of General Vomito, as they said in a dreadful 
sort of joke. At the time, however, Burke was in daily fear 
of its appearance — he might be a captain without a company 
— and how, then, could he go to Monterey, or wherever we 
were bound? 

All this was a borrowing of trouble, I find by reference to 
that reliable publication out of which our schoolboy learns — 
or does not learn — the history of his grandfather’s cam¬ 
paigns, that the volunteer troops of the United States Army 
began to march up the river on the 11th of August, 1846. 
Our first halt was at Matamoros where we were to lay a day 
or so; and where Captain Burke’s earliest care, after the 
disposition of his command, was to visit “La Lluvia de Oro.” 
He was saluted by the pock-marked porter, to whom he was 
now well known, with a grimace of vile suggestion; and then 
this worthy handed him a letter intimating at the same time 
that, to his own unmeasured distress, the captain was to be 
disappointed. “La nina se fue!” he said, looking like a 
benevolent gargoyle. 

Burke surveyed him in perplexity, turning the letter in 
his hand. He was not very glib at the Spanish tongue, and 


396 


NATHAN BURKE 


was uncertain whether he had understood correctly. “She’s 
gone away, you say? Is that it? Where?” 

The man did not know. “Quien sabe?” He raised a 
shoulder in a gesture that at once released him from all re¬ 
sponsibility, indicated his ignorance, and expressed his regret. 
She had given him the letter for el Senor Capitan — she had 
forgotten to give him, Manuel, anything — not the smallest 
— una propina. — Did the Senor understand ? Something for 
himself, Manuel — was it not worth it? — not everybody 
could be trusted to deliver a letter, eh? Senor, a thousand 
thanks! 

Burke walked away, disregarding Manuel’s pressing invi¬ 
tation to come in and stay awhile. Nance had taken the 
decision into her own hands, it seemed; the young man was 
struck with horror and remorse at finding himself a little 
relieved. He stopped near a stall at the corner of the market- 
square, where two or three peon women were squatting in the 
dust with their wares spread before them, and a mess bubbling 
in an earthenware pan on their little brazier. An oil lamp 
flared overhead. Burke opened the letter; it was written 
in a cramped, formless hand on a single sheet of shining pink 
note-paper, and began with the stilted phrases which the 
volumes that professed to teach this kind of composition used 
to recommend in those days. 

“Dear Frend Nat, 

“I take up my pen to inform you that I am well and hope 
you are the same, and when this meets yore eye I will be far 
away. I am going away from here Nat and its no use yore 
hunting me up becawse I dont meen you to find me. Theres 
no use talking enny more about it Ive done enuff bad and I 
dont want to do enny more least I dont want to hurt you. 
And it woold hurt you Nathan if you was to have me hanging 
onto you the hole time. That girl yore going to get married 
too she woodent like it for one and I hope she wont never 
know about me and you woold better not tell her becawse 
she woodent ever get over wurrying you about me. I hope 
youl be very happy marrid Nat and alluz treet her good like 
you alluz done everybody and try and get home to the meals 
on time becawse I riccolleck that used to wurry Mrs. Ducey 
so about the men-folks not getting home to the meals on time. 


ALARUMS. EXCURSIONS 


397 


I gess most ladies like her and yore girl wurries about things 
like that. And I hope youl have a little boy right away. I 
hope it ant rong for me to put that in a letter to a jentelman. 
So no more at present and goodbye from yore affexshunate 

“ Nance. 

“ Ime afrade it ant wrote nor spelled very good but you 
know I never had much scholing. Pleese dont try to hunt 
me up. It done me good to see you Nat.” 

Nathan read it through twice; it had been written with 
many painful erasures and corrections, yet was a sorry thing 
at best. There was a large round blister beside the final 
words, “It done me good to see you Nat.” Burke looked at 
it with a blur in his eyes. The women at his feet were cluck¬ 
ing and chattering together in their lingo and as he folded 
up the paper and moved to go on, began a shrill crying of 
their sweetmeats and tortillas to the American officer. The 
sight of the food sickened him. He went back to his quarters 
weary and heavy-hearted; and tossed all night long in his 
unrefreshing slumbers. 

It was not wholly depression of spirits that ailed the young 
man, as he was inclined to imagine at the beginning. The 
brigade moved in a couple of days; it formed part of the field 
division which was the last in the line of march, both Worth’s 
and Twiggs’ being in advance of us. And doubtless the First 
Ohio made a brave appearance and stepped along as gallantly 
as any other regiment in the volunteer service, even though 
it was deprived temporarily of one of its most valuable 
officers. For alas for glory and ambition! Captain Burke 
lay very sick of the measles in the hospital at Matamoros, 
and turning in his fever, saw wild visions and heard delirious 
noises mingling with the tramp of the infantry beneath the 
windows and the bugles sounding the march. 


CHAPTER V 


In which the Warrior languishes in his Tent 

The disease of measles which children are expected to 
endure as a matter of course and without a murmur is in 
adult years accompanied by a prostrating fever, with cough- 
ings, retchings, and other disorders that somewhat tax the 
patience and philosophy of the sufferer. Burke, who upon 
the appearance of its first symptoms had pooh-poohed our 
regimental surgeon’s orders, and announced his intention 
of* marching with the troops at their appointed time, in 
twenty-four hours lapsed into a state when he was quite 
indifferent to the movements of the army; and never retained 
more than a hazy and distorted recollection of those days 
when the malady was at its height. He went fishing with 
Jake Darnell, he tried cases in court, he posted the ledger for 
Ducey & Co., he cut grass, he made love to Mary Sharp¬ 
less; anon he came to his senses, and looked upon the high 
ceiling towering overhead, and the blank walls, and the bare 
red tile floor with a feeble wonder; and wanted to get up 
because the reveille was sounding; and sank back once more 
to his burning dreams. 

During the first two days, if anything could have added to 
the captain’s fever, it would have been the hot coals figura¬ 
tively heaped upon his head by his first lieutenant. The 
hospital at Matamoros like all the American army hospitals 
in Mexico — I tell the truth to our shame — was an unwhole¬ 
some barracks, dirty, neglected, ill-supplied with medicines 
or the proper food for invalids; and the nursing so incompe¬ 
tent that none but the most robust of the sick men stood much 
chance of recovery, whatever their ills. In spite of all this, 
George Ducey, the moment he heard of his senior’s seizure, 
hastened to this unattractive place, and for the remaining 
time before the regiment marched, hardly left his bedside; 

398 


THE WARRIOR LANGUISHES IN HIS TENT 399 


nor could any one have asked a kinder, more patient, cheer¬ 
ful, and zealous attention. It was a work of genuine mercy 
and charity; and showed that warm-heartedness of his 
mother’s which, as John Vardaman used to say, was the least 
of Mrs. Ducey’s good qualities and the best of George’s. 
Whatever cause Burke may have had to complain of him, 
let me set this much down to George Ducey’s credit; and I 
may add that it was the only one of his actions about which 
I never knew him to lie or boast. I am the more anxious 
that it should be acknowledged, because, at the time, Nat 
was scarcely conscious of the other’s presence and care and 
certainly must have seen him go without a word of thanks. 
When he strove to recall what happened during this period of 
his illness, he classed George with the rest of the phantoms 
of that fever-haunted time — with visions of his colonel and 
other uniformed figures appearing, murmuring in the corners, 
eying him from the foot of the bed, and drifting away — 
with the doctor, and with some dark-skinned Mexican 
woman who was forever trying to make him drink. It was 
from these latter that he afterwards learned of George’s 
devotion — learned with a kind of shamed surprise. 

When he arrived at the convalescent stage in a week or 
more,— for measles, if severe, are also mercifully of short dura¬ 
tion, and, being in clean physical condition when attacked, 
Nat perhaps made a better recovery than had he been of a 
weak or sickly habit, — the army was gone excepting the 
slight garrison Taylor had left behind to secure the post. 
Matamoros had returned almost to its native calm; there 
was an uncanny silence abroad; no more ordnance rumbling 
through the contracted streets; no more Rangers, “bloody 
with spurring, fiery red with haste,” thundering in from the 
country, jingling and clattering with straps and stirrup- 
buckles, exactly as you may hear the mounted messengers 
“off stage” when you go of a night to see “ Shenandoah” 
or Mr. Gillette in “Held by the Enemy.” No more soldiers 
drunk and sober, fighting or friendly, crowding the liquor- 
shops to the doors, hurrahing and horse-playing, gambling, 
cock-maining, throwing their money to the four winds. 
Never before — and probably never since — had the stolid 
little town known such a time of excitement and profit. 
But lo, now even the saloon-keepers and faro-dealers packed 


400 


NATHAN BURKE 


up their stock in trade and took the trail for Camargo; per¬ 
haps some of the “actors” too — vultures all, battening on 
the refuse of both armies. The Mexican tradesmen were 
reappearing; the gentry, many of whom had fled in a panic 
to their outlying haciendas on the approach of the Americans, 
dug up their money and valuables and timidly returned. 
“Still, the place is dead, perfectly dead. We’re going back 
to the States as soon as we can raise the money,” a friend of 
Burke’s confided to him. 

This was young Mr. Joseph Jefferson, who, happening 
in his public station where all the gossip of the camp was 
briskly circulated to hear of the captain’s illness, came at 
once to visit him, with that kind and hearty sympathy 
which I am sure has always been characteristic of this gentle¬ 
man. At first he was not admitted, Burke’s exceedingly 
unromantic complaint being then at its worst; but his second 
call found the invalid sitting up, weak and unshaven, and, 
I think, displaying that hopeful sign, a furious bad temper. 

“Where’s your brother?” said Joseph, looking all about; 
“that young fellow that was here taking care of you before, 
I mean. He was your brother, wasn’t he?” 

Burke growled out, No, he wasn’t — he wasn’t any kin 
to him — his name was Ducey — he wished to Heaven 
people wouldn’t be everlastingly poking it at him that George 
Ducey was his brother. Why, he’d marched — gone with 
the army. 

“It’s a pity he had to go — he was a mighty good nurse, 
the doctor said.” 

“He was good to me,” the other admitted rather shame¬ 
facedly; “I didn’t know much about it. I’ve been out of 
my head right along.” 

“Yes. So they said. He knows Badger — wasn’t it 
funny? Met him here in Matamoros, playing fa — that is, 
around somewhere in town, I mean,” said Jefferson, correct¬ 
ing himself hastily. “But Ed didn’t know his name, either 
— half the time you don’t ask people’s names, there’re so 
many officers.” 

“Badger? Who’s Badger?” 

“Why, my partner, Ed Badger. Didn’t you meet him — 
oh, no, I remember, he wasn’t around the day you were there. 
I’ll bring him up some day soon to see you. There isn’t 


THE WARRIOR LANGUISHES IN HIS TENT 401 


anything to do now any more — the bottom’s out of the 
coffee-and-pie business.” 

“Has the ‘Grand Spanish Saloon’ gone up, too?” Burke 
inquired with a flicker of interest. 

“Nothing left of it but the bad name and fixtures,” said 
the boy with a sigh of humorous regret. “Trade fell off 
terribly here when the army went, you know. There’s 
nobody to get drunk — no Americans, that is. You can’t 
make a living getting the Mexicans drunk on pulque. It’s 
only about three cents a glass — and they’re whaling big 
glasses! Our proprietor got discouraged and quit. Mata- 
moros was no place for an honest, hard-working fellow like 
him. We’re going, too—” and he made the statement 
quoted above. 

He kept his word, to bring Mr. Badger, thinking, no doubt, 
in the goodness of his heart, that Burke would like to meet 
and talk to somebody who knew his dear friend Ducey, 
whom, however, the actor only referred to very briefly and 
with a queer side-glance at Nathan, which the latter thought 
he understood. Nat was glad enough to make Badger’s 
acquaintance for his own sake; he was a most amiable and 
genial man. He had been on the stage all his life, and was 
now some twenty-eight or thirty years old, with a nonde¬ 
script, serviceable education picked up nobody knows how, 
a pair of astonishingly long, active legs trained to various 
tricks of dancing and drollery, the ideal face for Sam Weller, 
and secret aspirations towards Hamlet. He was a great 
deal funnier off the stage, and when he meant to be serious, 
than on, when he wanted to be funny — as I can testify, 
having seen him in both localities. Joe and he, they said, 
had appeared together in those comedy parts where the 
humor is pointed and emphasized by a foot or so of difference 
in height. But even in those young days Jefferson must 
have been ten times the better actor. During the fortnight 
while Burke was getting back his strength — with a slowness 
maddening to his impatient spirit — the two young men used 
to come and entertain him by the hour almost daily; they 
read, they sang, they painted their faces, got out a pair of 
“property” weapons and performed a broadsword combat 
for him in character, with tremendous ha -ings and stampings. 
They spouted Shakespeare to the captain who had had few 
2d 


402 


NATHAN BURKE 


opportunities of going to the theatre in our little city, and 
had never witnessed a presentation of the dramas he so loved 
to read. Honest Badger raged and roared and tore a pas¬ 
sion to tatters, swelling the veins in his neck, and rolling out 
his r’s with a grand good-will — Bless me, I can hear him 
now: “I’d r-r-r-ather-r-r be a dog, and bay the moon, than 
such a RR-r-r-oman! ” These were Badger’s conceptions of 
high tragedy; whereas Jefferson made few gestures, and 
seldom raised his voice out of an ordinary speaking tone, yet 
the words sought one’s very heart. I have heard him repeat 
those lines of the poor little Prince Arthur — 

“ So I were out of prison and kept sheep, 

I should be merry as the day is long — ” 

with an accent so simple, wistful, and touching, it brought 
tears to the eyes. 

The night before he left Matamoros, Captain Burke, 
somewhat haggard about the jaws, and not so steady upon 
his legs — which now appeared even longer and lanker than 
Badger’s — as he had been, but still in a tolerably fair way 
towards his usual health, went to bid Mrs. Jefferson good- 
by — they themselves were going down to the Brazos in a 
few days; and Burke spent the evening and got the lady 
to recite for him the speech of Katharine before her judges, 
a thing for nobility and dignity and womanliness long to 
be remembered; he also displayed an appetite for dinner 
which he has ever since recalled with shame; and he passed 
some jokes about Metta — who had another lover, a Mexican 
lad with a belt full of knives — to Joe’s confusion; and came 
away at last regretfully wondering if he would ever see them 
again, players being a wandering tribe. Indeed, it was a 
good while; the next time that he met Joseph was at least 
twenty years later, when the latter was playing an engage¬ 
ment in Chicago — it was “ Rip Van Winkle, ” then newly 
added to his repertory. Burke watched the performance, 
and, I dare say, blew his nose with suspicious frequency 
while it was going on, from an orchestra chair; and after the 
second act ventured around to the stage door, and sent up 
his card, having written “Matamoros” upon it for identifi¬ 
cation. But Rip remembered him at once, sent word for 
General Burke to come up to his dressing-room, and as the 


THE WARRIOR LANGUISHES IN HIS TENT 403 


latter entered, saluted him from the table where he was 
engaged with grease paint and what-not in metamorphosing 
a very active and youthful-looking man of thirty-five into 
a decrepit personage with flowing white hair and a coat of 
wonderful stage rags — I say he saluted Burke with, “This 
isn’t a very good place for a boy like you, my son!” and they 
both roared out laughing. 

The captain also received a hearty God-speed from Mr. 
Badger, who at this time had some notion of joining the army 
himself, and asked all manner of absurd questions about the 
needful steps. Edward, who was a harmlessly vain, good- 
hearted, helter-skelter sort of fellow, rather fancied himself 
in the costume, posing for a charge at the head of a division 
— no mere regiment or company would have satisfied him. 
And I have no doubt he would have done his duty, and 
carried himself bravely before the enemy. But, although 
he did turn up in Monterey after the capitulation among the 
hordes of Americans from everywhere and nowhere who 
mysteriously swarmed into the place on the heels of our men, 
Badger had by that time forgotten all about his military 
ambitions; he had joined a circus company instead! Burke 
hunted him up and tried in some measure to return his kind¬ 
nesses; and presently lost sight of him again when we 
marched for Victoria. If the captain could have foreseen 
the semi-tragic circumstances of his next meeting with this 
jovial mountebank, what would have been his astonish¬ 
ment and dismay! 

Captain Burke then moved upon Monterey in good 
order, the first days of September, making all the speed he 
could, for he knew that his associates of the field division 
had by this time reached Camargo, and the regulars were 
probably farther still on the road. This was the news that 
had come down the river, with any number of the usual 
wildly contradictory rumors about overwhelming forces of 
Mexicans ready to give battle in our front, fierce cavalry 
skirmishing on our flanks, ambuscades, and alarms; the 
enemy were alternately said to be contesting every inch of 
the way, and falling back like sheep; the populace were at 
one and the same time welcoming us with open arms as 
deliverers of the oppressed — this was a favorite fiction in 


404 


NATHAN BURKE 


the American camp — and lurking in the rear to rob and 
murder the unwary as we marched. The transports were 
still plying on the river, although as it was now approaching 
the beginning of the dry season, Burke was informed that 
they might not ply much longer, Camargo being the limit of 
navigation at any time. He was amazed to find on a visit 
made to Texas in later years that the Rio Grande, which he 
remembered as a mighty and majestic body of water near its 
mouth, shrank, several hundred miles farther up at the town 
of Laredo, to a pitiful narrowness — though still big enough 
to have held some dozen or more of the captain’s native 
Scioto. That, however, was in the middle of winter when 
not a drop of rain had fallen in these parts for months. 
Nat got himself and his luggage on board one of the boats, 
in company with a handful of other convalescents likewise 
bent on rejoining their commands, and they would have 
had a pleasant enough voyage of it if everybody had not been 
in such a state of feverish hurry. They sat about the hot, 
steamy decks, cursing their ill luck aloud, the very worst 
and most profanely impatient of them all being, as I remem¬ 
ber, a ghastly pale, weak young lieutenant who had been in 
hospital with some kind of low fever, and was not nearly 
recovered. Burke and the others guessed that this poor 
boy was already bound upon a different and longer journey; 
he failed visibly; and, indeed, had a relapse and died within 
a few days after landing; and the officers, his fellow-travel¬ 
lers, took up a collection amongst themselves to bury him. 
One of the party remarked after the funeral with a grisly 

humor that he was going to follow poor -’s example, 

get the good of his money while he could, and die with empty 
pockets — “for,” said he, “why bother about leaving 
enough to bury you decently? You’ll be buried, never fear! 
Nobody’s going to leave you lying around, I guess.” The 
fact is, none of them had much money at this time. 

At Camargo the squad of convalescents was augmented by 
a very large number who had been in hospital there. Whether 
the place itself was unhealthy, or the army overtaxed by 
the march thither — for not a tenth could be taken by the 
transports — the sick-list was so heavy here that the men 
got to calling this camp “the Graveyard”; and perhaps 
added to its dire reputation by joining the ranks when they 



THE WARRIOR LANGUISHES IN HIS TENT 405 


should have been in their beds. The rear guard had marched 
thirty-six hours before Burke’s arrival — oh, cursed spite 
of Fate! He had known that we could not reach them in 
time; but thirty-six hours is a provokingly narrow margin. 
The impressive figure of Fame seemed to be receding before 
us, like a will-o’-the-wisp. For nothing was more certain, 
we said to one another with gloomy head-shakes, than that 
an action would take place before we could catch up with the 
army; Santa Anna would never allow Taylor to get within 
striking distance of Monterey without opposition; there 
would be a great fight and a great victory — for the Ameri¬ 
cans, of course — and we wouldn’t be there! 

Santa Anna, as it happened, was nowhere in the neighbor¬ 
hood, nor dreaming of coming there, although as he was 
generalissimo of the Mexican forces he might well have been 
directing their movements. But it was Ampudia who 
commanded at Monterey with troops variously reported as 
numbering all the way from two thousand to ten. And on 
the very day when Captain Burke and his companions set 
out from Camargo — the body of the army having now 
reached Seraivo — the Mexican “ General-in-Chief of the 
Army of the North” as he styled himself, issued a fiery 
address in Napoleonic phrases to the patriots under him: 
“Soldiers!” said he, with a tremendous flourish, “Soldiers! 
The enemy, numbering only 2500 regular troops, the re¬ 
mainder being only a band of adventurers without valor 
or discipline, are, according to reliable information, about 
advancing upon Seralvo to commit the barbarity of attack¬ 
ing this most important place; we count nearly 3000 regulars 
and auxiliary cavalry, and these will defeat them again and 
again before they can reach this city. Soldiers, we are con¬ 
structing fortifications . . . and thence we will sally forth 
at a convenient time and drive back this enemy at the point 
of the bayonet! Soldiers! I have assured the supreme 
government of the triumph of our arms, confiding in your 
loyalty and enthusiasm. . . . Soldiers! Victory or death 
must be our only device!” 

The plain old man who commanded on our side did not 
think it necessary to discharge any such blast of eloquence 
upon his troops, expecting us, it is likely, to do our duty with¬ 
out any words about it, as he did his; and to be sure, has 


406 


NATHAN BURKE 


not General Scott pointed out that “ ... he (Taylor) 
was slow of thought, hesitant in speech, and unused to the 
pen,” all defects of which no man on earth could accuse 
General Scott. We were obliged to advance upon Mon¬ 
terey without encouragement in this line from old Rough-and- 
Ready, and I hardly think we could have bettered the re¬ 
sults even had Taylor been possessed of Scott’s fluency. 
By what the ex-invalids hurrying in the rear regarded as 
nothing less than a direct interposition of Providence, the 
army, having committed the barbarity of occupying Seralvo, 
halted there four days to concentrate; it was halted again 
a couple of days’ march farther at the village of Marin; 
and it was here, within twenty-five miles of Monterey, that 
we at last overtook them. Captain Burke reported for duty 
the 18th of September, and so far not a shot had been fired. 

Our army was encamped in a plain or plateau bordered by 
the San Juan River, and surrounded by most lovely moun¬ 
tain scenery, the like of which few of us had ever beheld, 
coming from the quiet landscapes of our native states. Ken- 
nard, whom Burke fell in with on the way to division head¬ 
quarters,— he did not know the captain had been ill, and 
heard it with a very kind concern, — said it reminded him 
a little of Harper’s Ferry. “The Mexicans call that biggest 
mountain The Saddle ,” he explained; “it looks like one, 
doesn’t it ? And the other’s The Mitre. You can see the 
city from places around here, the air’s so clear; I saw it 
yesterday. It’s funny to think we’re so near at last. And 
the queerest thing, Burke, the little, silent, empty towns 
we’ve come through all the way from Seralvo — everybody 
cleared out. Like a fairy-tale — the Sleeping-Beauty — 
with a difference!” The whole way, he said, their brigade 
of Worth’s, which marched at the head, had been close be¬ 
hind a body or bodies of Mexican horse, Torrejon’s cavalry, 
the scouts thought; they would flit into view, hover, and van¬ 
ish, a mile, sometimes less, ahead, any hour of the day; 
never able, apparently, to make up their minds to attack, 
or to wait for our charge. These were the gentlemen who 
were to beat us again and again, and the whole army indulged 
in a great deal of merriment at their expense. I have rarely 
seen men more confident and gay on the eve of action. 

Mr. Burke, learning that pay-day had arrived during the 


THE WARRIOR LANGUISHES IN HIS TENT 407 


month of his absence, took an opportunity to present his 
claim at the paymaster’s department; when he discovered, 
to his surprise, that Captain Burke’s money had already 
been handed over and receipted for in due form on the rolls. 
Burke was not personally known to the paymaster — an 
officer of volunteers like himself — and however this mistake 
had occurred (something which was never wholly cleared 
up) there was at the moment no way of correcting it, in fact 
no time for formalities of any sort, as we were about to 
march. The captain returned to his command not at all dis¬ 
turbed in mind; we had more important matters to occupy 
us. About ten o’clock of the next morning — September 
19 — as we were advancing rapidly in close order, Burke’s 
company being near the head of the column, all at once, with 
a very loud, deep, and thunderous sound, a cannon at Mon¬ 
terey began to roar. 

There was a little pause, and then two more reports, and 
the order to halt was given. We were all very much excited. 
At intervals during the morning, as we wound about between 
the hills, the town had come in sight, with its roofs and the 
cathedral spire precisely defined in that clean air; and now 
our advance must have got within range. Somebody said 
that the guns were twelve-pounders firing from the citadel, 
and that one shot had gone within ten feet of General Taylor 
as he rode with his staff in the First Division. We were 
presently ordered into camp in a grove of trees near by; 
the engineers went forward and the Rangers for a reconnois- 
sance; all day long — a clear and hot day — we heard the 
heavy guns and the musketry from the city. 


CHAPTER VI 


In which the First Ohio behaves Well under Fire 

The Mexican War, as has already been noted, fared most 
magnificently at the hands of contemporary historians who 
spared no adjectives nor exclamation points in the glorify¬ 
ing of our American arms; and in spite of them, the same war, 
as has also been noted, is all but forgot, or arouses only the 
slenderest of attention to-day. For either or both of which 
reasons, it seems scarcely worth while for the present writer 
to add his brick to the heap, and tax the souls of his readers 
with dreary details. The siege of Monterey shall be dis¬ 
missed as speedily as possible in this history; and let it be 
said once for all of Captain Burke’s performances, both here 
and elsewhere, that they were creditable to himself, but no 
more dashing nor glorious than those of a thousand other 
brave and upright men — among whom I make bold to class 
him. 

The city of Monterey, as you may read in a dozen accounts, 
lay along a curve of the river San Juan in a pretty strong 
natural position. It was defended on our right by a large, 
lofty building, the Bishop’s palace, turned into a fort with 
guns and protecting works, which stood — and still stands, 
such was the original strength and thickness of its walls — 
on a height commanding the western approaches of the city; 
the Citadel, about midway of the northern front of the town, 
a formidable piece of fortification, built of black stone, cover¬ 
ing two or three acres with its bastions and outworks, 
and proportionately furnished with guns and men. As far 
as I know, setting aside the planting of two howitzers — 
the only siege guns we had — in a ravine facing it, there was 
no attack, nor even any demonstration made against this 
place; and I was afterwards told by Major-general Quit- 
man, that, happening to be with Taylor at the time of his 
giving the order for Worth’s advance, the general turned to 

408 


THE FIRST OHIO UNDER FIRE 


409 


his council, and said, with a smile: “I think, gentlemen, 
we’ll let the Black Fort alone for a while. We don’t want to 
bite off more than we can chew.” At the eastern end of the 
town there were three strong redoubts, and a fortified bridge 
across a little stream which entered the San Juan thereabouts; 
besides all this the city proper, which was built, as if in the 
intention to resist a siege, of stout low one-story stone houses, 
was barricaded from wall to wall and street to street up to 
the very doors of the cathedral in the main plaza, and a great 
many unofficial defenders took a hand in the fight from be¬ 
hind these impromptu fortifications. 

The issue of this conflict is well known. With an equal 
force, with the moral and physical advantage of an en¬ 
trenched position, with a chain of defences so strong that one 
of them was never attempted, and another (the Diablo 
redoubt) held out victoriously until he himself withdrew 
its garrison, with a populace which lent him all possible 
encouragement and support, with supplies to have lasted 
for weeks — with all this General Pedro de Ampudia, at the 
end of three days’ fighting, gave up Monterey. I do not 
like to picture the feelings of the gallant men who served 
under him; there seems to be something in the Spanish char¬ 
acter, a something transmitted to its utmost strain of blood, 
that renders it incapable or unfit to command, while most 
prompt, resolute, and courageous to obey. For let nobody 
imagine that we effected a lodgment in the city and got the 
upper hand easily or without resistance; we may have been 
better soldiers than the Mexican rank-and-file, but we were 
no braver men. 

The Ohio volunteers figured only very insignificantly on 
the first day of the siege, in a spectacular showing towards 
sundown of a few companies apiece from Twiggs’s and 
Butler’s corps, along a high plain or shoulder of the moun¬ 
tains, where they could be seen by the city sentinels, and 
draw attention from Worth’s movement against the Bishop’s 
palace. Our chance came the next morning about ten 
o’clock when the general ordered out reenforcements to 
support Colonel Garland’s attack on the redoubts at the left. 
Mitchell’s regiment, with Major-general Butler in the front, 
gallantly leading his division into action, pushed up between 
the redoubts and the bridge-head under a severe fire which 


410 


NATHAN BURKE 


the men stood up to in good style; at the same time the other 
brigade of volunteers under Quitman charged and took 
the work farthest from us (the Teneria), so that, although 
we were presently ordered to retire without having indi¬ 
vidually gained a foot, something had been accomplished 
by our presence. And a cavalry charge by the Mexicans 
following up this withdrawal (the sight of which seemed 
to have sent the enemy quite frantic with delight! The 
cathedral bells were ringing, and the lancers hurrahing 
madly as they came after us), we took cover behind a con¬ 
venient hedge of our old acquaintance “that d—d chap¬ 
arral,” whence Captain Burke and his associates delivered 
so brisk a fire that the cavalry appeared measurably satisfied 
to charge in the opposite direction. Burke came out of this 
engagement ranking officer, his three seniors having been 
seriously wounded; and the command thus devolving upon 
him, he brought off what remained of the regiment, which 
had suffered heavily, in a tolerably well-ordered and soldierly 
manner, and, as to himself, without a scratch. 

The 22d the division spent resting in camp at Walnut 
Springs about three miles from the city, and under water 
instead of fire, for it rained hard and continuously; and 
Burke, who, as I have said, was unhurt and in excellent trim, 
chafed a good deal at this inaction. Towards evening an 
express came in with the news that Worth had stormed the 
last of the defences on the western heights, and their guns 
were now trained on the city itself. Captain Burke, hearing 
at the same time that General Quitman, now our division 
commander, Butler having been wounded the previous day, 
was to be sent to relieve the north front lines, went to him 
personally with a request to accompany his command; the 
general, with that kindness and sympathy which almost from 
their first meeting he always manifested towards the young 
man, responded by allowing him to go on his own staff as a 
volunteer aide. But the struggle was already all but over; 
during the night Ampudia withdrew his troops from the 
outworks, concentrating in the city and citadel, and at day¬ 
break we occupied without resistance the forts of the Diablo 
and La Libertad, where there had been such carnage on our 
first visit, a little more than twenty-four hours before. 
Thence the Americans commenced a forward movement into 


THE FIRST OHIO UNDER FIRE 


411 


the city, which presently became a hand-to-hand and house- 
to-house fight. We had to batter down and tunnel through 
one wall after another, and found every shop and shanty a 
fort. They made a most stubborn opposition. The firing 
was very severe although nothing like what it had been on the 
21st, except at one street running directly from the cathedral, 
where there was a hot fusillade through its whole length. 
Burke reached this place in company with a Captain Henry 
of the 3d Infantry whom he had fallen in with, I don’t re¬ 
member where — at the time neither one knew the other’s 
name; and it was here while they were debating the next 
move that Burke saw the American commander for the first 
time near at hand. “Look! There’s the general — that’s 
Taylor now!” his companion exclaimed. 1 

He was in the town with his staff, on foot, walking about, 
perfectly indifferent to the danger, in uniform, of course, 
but, as I remember, with a large gray slouched or shade hat 
on his head, and a bandanna knotted around his neck in 
“Ranger” fashion. He crossed the street where there was 
such a furious fire at a walk, and by every chance should have 
been shot down. We ran over with some of the men, and 
Henry began an agitated remonstrance, something about 
the general’s life being too valuable to be exposed so reck¬ 
lessly, and so on, to which General Taylor replied: “Take 
that axe and break down that door!” 

I have since seen many flaming lithographs and engravings 
of General Taylor’s triumphal entry into Monterey, and 
never without a laugh. He is always on a caracoling white 
horse, he brandishes a sword, he is bedizened with plumes 
and gold braid; the Mexicans reel before him, heaps of 
cannon and corpses encumber his path, the wounded feebly 
cheer him on. These are noble conceptions — and about 
as near the truth as all such portrayals of war, about which 
there is, to my mind at least, little fit to be pictured, or 
altogether pleasing to remember. When Burke obediently 

1 Captain Henry afterwards wrote a memoir of the Mexican War 
in which this incident is related very much as Burke recollected it. 
Taylor’s bearing on this occasion seems to have made a profound 
impression on both young men. Henry’s book was published by 
Harpers about 1860, and is probably still to be had at the libraries. 

F — M. S. W. 


412 


NATHAN BURKE 


picked up that axe and broke down that door with a smart 
blow or two, there was nobody behind it but a poor wretch 
of an apothecary cowering on the floor of his shop amongst 
his bottles and pill-boxes; and his wife and children came 
and flung themselves at our knees with wildly imploring 
gestures. “ Bueno. Amigo. Bueno,” says our kind old 
leader, patting the head of the youngster nearest him re¬ 
assuringly. I think the scene and act became him better 
and were more worthy of picturing than a thousand tri¬ 
umphs. 

That night Ampudia wrote a message of capitulation in 
which he said he had made all the defence of which the city 
was capable, and done all required by military honor; it 
was a manly and straightforward acknowledgment of defeat, 
creating an impression which, I am sorry to say, his later 
manoeuvres and prevarications thoroughly effaced. Officers 
were appointed from both sides to settle upon the terms 
of surrender. The cannon fell silent; the swords were all 
sheathed, and everybody sat down with a pen instead, to tell 
some anxious soul two thousand miles away who did not 
even know when or where a battle might be going on, that 
it was all over, and we were alive and unhurt, and poor 
So-and-So was gone — shot through the lungs in the assault 
on the palace — and Such-a-One would get the colonelcy, of 
course. The surgeons were very busy; Captain Burke set 
to work at his sad list of dead, wounded, and missing; and 
his own name was mentioned handsomely in despatches 
home, to his great gratification. 

In this matter of the capitulation of Monterey our general 
afterwards came in for some of the most unjust and ungrate¬ 
ful criticism, and the harshest censure that ever any govern¬ 
ment bestowed on a faithful servant. He was condemned 
for not pursuing the enemy with more speed and vigor when 
the very fault-finders whose business it was to provide him 
with supplies and transportation had failed to do so; for 
not pressing the siege closer when he had no siege artillery 
nor entrenching tools; for not taking the entire Mexican 
army, officers and men, prisoners of war, when it was as much 
as he or any man could do in that barren and hostile country 
to subsist his own men and maintain his position, let alone 
guard and care for a troop of prisoners numbering more than 


THE FIRST OHIO UNDER FIRE 


413 


his whole force; for consenting to a cessation of hostilities, 
or treating with the enemy at all; for suffering the garrison 
to depart with the honors of war, and the Mexican gunners 
to salute their captured flag. His political opponents speed¬ 
ily seized upon and made capital out of the administrative 
discontent; and when a resolution of thanks to General Taylor 
and the army was offered in Congress, it carried the amend¬ 
ment: “that nothing herein contained shall be construed into 
an approbation of the terms of capitulation at Monterey.” 
A brave man who feels that he has done his duty may, per¬ 
haps, dispense with the approbation of his superiors; and as 
to those who have been here called his political opponents, 
General Taylor was at once too strong and single of heart to 
heed their attacks; when the question of his candidacy for 
the Presidency had been broached to him during the summer, 
he wrote simply, “I have not the leisure to attend to it now. 
The war demands every moment of my present time.” It 
was not the answer his correspondents would have got 
from that able wielder of the pen, General Scott; and indeed, 
that hero exhibited afterwards in his autobiography — and 
may have at the time, for all we knew — the utter futility 
of the Monterey expedition, its waste of time, men, and 
money, and the meagreness of its results. “Cui bono?” 
says he elegantly and appropriately, displaying throughout 
his masterly work a splendid command of the Latin primer 
and those of several other languages. And this opinion 
being shared by the President and Secretary of War, and 
Taylor’s success having fully demonstrated his incompe¬ 
tency, they presently detached from him a considerable part 
of his army, Patterson’s command, and ordered it elsewhere 
without the formality of consulting our general, or even of 
notifying him; and followed this up by despatching Scott 
to the Rio Grande with authority to help himself to prac¬ 
tically all the regulars and almost all of the seasoned volun¬ 
teer troops remaining. 

All these events, however, went on more or less over the 
heads, as it were, of the army; certainly outside the sphere 
of such small fry as Captain Burke. The rumors of dis¬ 
satisfaction at Washington, when they finally reached us, 
concrete in newspapers and letters, caused a kind of angry 
bewilderment and dismay. What did the President want ? 



414 


NATHAN BURKE 


What did the public want ? Hadn’t we taken Monterey ? 
From our point of view it was almost ludicrously unreason¬ 
able to find fault with the general for the particular way in 
which he had got possession of a city, so long as he had ac¬ 
tually got possession of it. At the distance whence these 
comments were made, how could their authors be acquainted 
with all the circumstances ? We could not make out what 
all the talk was about, and were inclined to put it down to 
political chicanery, Whig or Democratic intriguing. The 
officers said to one another that we should like to have some 
of these bawling, blatherskiting, cheap-John stump-speakers 
and petty demagogues down here in Mexico a while; we 
should like to see how one of them would have invested 
Monterey, reduced the Citadel, and taken everybody pris¬ 
oners ! We ourselves saw the Mexican army march away 
without resentment; it is only the non-fighters who are for¬ 
ever shrieking for the enemy’s blood. Burke himself was 
occupied the first few days after the surrender with a matter 
to which he should have attended before, and that now gave 
him a serious concern; for when he made up that list, enter¬ 
ing our losses with a grave heart, Lieutenant George Ducey 
was among the missing. 

The truth is, rejoining his regiment the day and almost the 
hour when it marched, Captain Burke, after some hurried 
inquiries, finding that nobody knew exactly where George 
was, but that everybody had “just seen him,” or seen him 
yesterday, or thought he was “somewhere” — the captain, I 
say, gave him up for the moment, taking no further trouble 
about George, whom, besides, he could not very well have 
sought in a body of several hundred men, which itself was only 
a part of another body of several thousand. And let us be 
frank, my friends. Did Nat care greatly about seeing George ? 
He must thank the young man for those kind-hearted atten¬ 
tions at Matamoros — and I fear that Captain Nathan was 
not of so free and noble a spirit as to find that a pleasant duty. 
I have said it before, the man is an exalted character who can 
take a favor well; nor would it ever be easy to take one from 
somebody we dislike. No, I think Burke was a little glad 
not to meet George Ducey at once; and the stirring events 
of succeeding hours put the lieutenant out of his mind al¬ 
together. Now it was borne in upon him with a growing 


THE FIRST OHIO UNDER FIRE 


415 


anxiety that a very grave thing had occurred — no graver, to 
be sure, than the loss by death or otherwise of scores of our 
men — but he knew George — George was one of his own 
company — and there was the poor mother at home perhaps 
on her knees at that moment praying for her boy. Burke 
went about the search in good earnest — lo, this time nobody 
had seen Lieutenant Ducey, nobody knew anything about 
him, even those who had assured the captain that they had 
seen him “somewhere” shortly before the fight, now declared 
he had been missing for a week! Long before we got to Mon¬ 
terey, they said earnestly, he had disappeared, before Marin, 
before Seralvo. 

Burke took these statements, which were made in perfect 
good faith, with allowances, for the confusion and hurry of 
the late happenings; he himself felt as if the three days of the 
siege had been as many months, as if he had been away from 
home a year; and could not remember whether such and such 
a thing had befallen on Sunday or Monday, or this week or 
last. George, he thought, could not have been missing on 
the march; it would have been remarked; an officer does not 
stray like a private. He was not in hospital, for that was 
easily and definitely settled at once by inquiry of the proper 
officials; he was not with the regiment, but he might be else¬ 
where in the army; he might have volunteered as an aide like 
Burke himself, or gone on a reconnoissance, and been shot or 
taken, or he might — 

The objection to all these guesses was one which Burke 
shrank from discussing with anybody, and rebuked himself 
for entertaining. He could not imagine George steadfast in 
any position of danger, voluntarily facing bodily harm. Nat 
believed from the bottom of his heart that if ever a coward 
existed on earth, it was George Ducey; George on a reconnois¬ 
sance or taking part in an attack was inconceivable. Yet it 
is impossible to say what even a cowardly man may do at 
times; and if his body was not lying in some of the hastily 
dug grave trenches about the city, in some ravine, corn-field, 
or copse of chaparral, then where was he? The captain felt 
a sting of remorse when he remembered how sharp had been 
his last conscious words with George, and the poor young fel¬ 
low’s kindness later; after all, what need to have been so 
harsh with him ? What could you expect of George Ducey ? 


416 


NATHAN BURKE 


Truly, his ridiculous attempt at blackmail was a little worse 
than anything Burke had ever known him to do before; 
hitherto, his lying and bragging and borrowing had never 
really harmed anybody much but himself; it was only natural 
and inevitable that such a character should deteriorate; but 
even so, and although George had no earthly claim on him, 
it seemed to Burke that old acquaintance, common memories, 
ordinary humanity, the‘regard he felt for the rest of the 
family imposed a sort of responsibility on him. It was as 
little Francie had said long ago: somebody must look out for 
George. Dimly Nathan began to perceive the immemorial 
weapon of the weak: help me, or you push me down hill 
— take care of me, or on your own head be my undoing ! 

Moved by all this, the captain prosecuted his search with 
such vigor, as to give some color to that old report of his 
kinship with the missing man; and his task, ironically enough, 
was not rendered any easier by his brother-officers who, out 
of the consideration they thought due to Ducey’s relative, 
did not always answer his questions as plainly as they might, 
or tried so hard to soften their statements that they ended by 
being valueless. However, it was presently established be¬ 
yond doubt that Lieutenant Ducey had not been with his own 
regiment or brigade nor volunteered on any other service, 
nor been seen in any part of the field during the three days’ 
fighting; at some time which nobody seemed able to fix, 
Lieutenant Ducey had vanished, literally bag and baggage, 
for none of his clothes and possessions, even to that Mexican 
saddle about which Burke had rated him so soundly, could 
be found; with so many thieving Mexicans about, this was 
not so surprising. And it was in fact more than likely that 
some of these latter gentry could have accounted for the un¬ 
fortunate boy’s disappearance. Burke thought with horror 
of the letter he must sit down and write to the family at home; 
if George had fallen in battle, it would have been bad enough, 
but in all probability robbed and murdered, and his body cast 
aside for the buzzards or the lean, starveling dogs — Merci¬ 
ful God, what an end! 

“Not your cousin — Ducey not your cousin?” said an 
officer,' to whom Burke was confiding this gloomy view, in 
astonishment, “Why, what relation was he, then? ” 

“None at all, I tell you,” said Nat, impatiently; “I don’t 


THE FIRST OHIO UNDER FIRE 


417 


know how that story got around. We come from the same 
place, that’s all.” 

“Well, but he was your friend — you were great friends, of 
course?” asked the other, cautiously. 

“No, not such very great friends, only — I’ve known him 
all his life, you see. I know the family very well, and I’ve 
got to find out something about him — I’ve got to write home 
and tell his mother — poor woman! It’s an awful business 
— if we could only find the — the body, it would be a kind 
of comfort to her, maybe, but this way —” 

“Oh, so that’s the reason you were making such a fuss,” 
said the other, with a perceptible change of manner; “you — 
you seemed to take it so to heart, I didn’t like to say anything 
before — and of course it is an awfully sad thing for any 
young fellow to go that way,” he interpolated hastily; “and 
I’m sorry for his mother, but Ducey himself — why, I’d just 
as lief say right out, he’s no great loss. Don’t like to talk 
about a dead man — but it’s no more than I’d have said 
while he was alive. I knew Ducey pretty well. If he’s got 
killed, it wasn’t fighting; he’d be much more likely to drop 
down dead from heart-disease running away! Say, I guess 
you didn’t hear that story about him and Crittenden? You 
say you’ve been in hospital, and then, of course, if people 
think you’re his cousin, they won’t be so liable to tell you.” 

This is a sample of the plain talk Captain Burke succeeded 
in getting when he had industriously removed the impression 
about his connection with George; he was amazed to find 
what a character the young man had become in the camp. 
The story about him and Crittenden, which Nat had missed 
so far, appeared to have circulated throughout the whole 
army, and was actually the last thing anybody remembered 
definitely about George. Mr. Thomas L. Crittenden of Ken¬ 
tucky was one of a number of young gentlemen who were to 
be met with almost everywhere during the Mexican cam¬ 
paigns, moving with our armies, living at their own charges, 
without official rank, and, though not in the service formally, 
volunteering whenever a volunteer was needed, and perform¬ 
ing deeds of as much risk and difficulty as if they had held a 
dozen commissions; Mr. Crittenden himself having assumed 
the duties of General Taylor’s aide during the engagements 
just past, a post wherein he displayed the utmost gallantry, 



418 


NATHAN BURKE 


so that our general (who was always most scrupulous and 
painstaking to render honor where honor was due) put his 
name in the despatches. Burke met him and liked him ex¬ 
ceedingly; he was a long, tall, lank young man, with a very 
gentle voice and manners, a great talent for playing cards, 
and none at all for playing the banjo, upon which, neverthe¬ 
less, he liked to thrum by the hour, always carrying one about 
with him. The gist of the Ducey story, as near as Burke 
could ever make out, was this: Lieutenant Ducey, being in a 
company while Mr. Crittenden was executing a voluntary on 
his instrument, and considering himself a judge of music, 
began by going through a great many satirically significant 
nods, winks, shrugs, and other pantomime to express his 
amused disapproval. I do not know what else he did or said, 
but Mr. Crittenden was reported to have borne it all with 
commendable patience and good-humor until George finally 
remarked with an open sneer: — 

“What a wonderfully good ear you have for music, Mr. 
Crittenden!” 

To which the other replied mildly: “I have, sir, and some 
people have wonderfully good noses for pulling!” Saying 
which, Mr. Crittenden of Kentucky laid aside his banjo, and 
rising up, very rapidly and dexterously performed that feat 
upon the person of Lieutenant Ducey, to the entertainment 
of all the spectators. 

It was not to be expected that this occurrence would be 
kept quiet, or that either of the principals would be allowed 
to forget it. The fashion of taking a gentleman’s revenge 
for an insult, bloody and foolish as it was, had not gone out 
with Mr. Clay’s defeat for the Presidency; but Burke was not 
surprised to hear that Crittenden, although holding himself 
in readiness for a challenge, had not received one. George 
had been content to sit down with his pulled nose, apparently. 
The affair had taken place, they said, shortly after the army 
marched from Seralvo; and some averred that Lieutenant 
Ducey had not been seen since. The official account of the 
battle had long since gone home; and that passage beginning 
ominously, “I regret to report—” was doubtless known 
word for word to many a sad heart to whom the much-decried 
terms of the capitulation seemed but a trivial matter in 
comparison, when Captain Burke reluctantly sat down to 


THE FIRST OHIO UNDER FIRE 


419 


confirm to Mrs. Ducey the tidings of her son’s disappearance. 
He told her the truth as gently as it could be told; that 
George could not be found; that the chance of his being alive 
was one in a hundred; it would have been no mercy to have 
aroused any sort of hope in the poor mother’s heart. Burke 
could honestly speak with regret of the dead man; he dwelt 
on George’s kindness to him in his sickness, tried to recall 
the times when George had talked about her and home, the 
things he had said; perhaps the captain furbished up these 
instances a little — who would not? — yet George was really 
fond of his mother. And ended with some words of sym¬ 
pathy, awkwardly put, no doubt, yet sincere. Mrs. Ducey 
would be wondering bitterly why her son had to be taken 
and a young fellow like Burke without father or mother to 
mourn him spared, he said to himself, as he went out and 
posted the letter. 

The writing of this was so dismal a business that Nat was 
glad enough to encounter and join half a dozen light-hearted 
lads — one of them had got a bullet through the thigh in the 
fight at the bridge-head, and was limping about on crutches 
with the jauntiest air in the world! — on leave from the camp 
at Walnut Springs where General Taylor still had his head¬ 
quarters, and bent on driving dull care away in Monterey. 
The city was tolerably well provided for that purpose; al¬ 
ready, in the short month elapsed since its fall, there had ap¬ 
peared the advance-guard of that other American invasion, 
which forever followed in the trail of our army; those beauties 
arrayed more richly than the lilies of the field and who, like 
the lilies, neither toiled nor spun for a living; those frock- 
coated, tall-hatted, impenetrable, reserved gentlemen with 
diamonds on their fingers, pistols in their hip pockets, and an 
amazing facility at manipulating playing-cards — all, all 
were here, the old familiar faces. The billiard-halls were 
running night and day; the cock-pits were in operation; 
there was another “Grand Spanish Saloon,” I swear, in full 
blast, not to mention half a hundred lesser ones. The 
theatre was open, the bands played in the plaza, our friends 
the Rangers were galloping in and out as of old, the volun¬ 
teers were getting drunk and disgracing the service and being 
haled off to their regimental caboose by details of sober 
ones — vogue la galere! Somebody had heard that there 


420 


NATHAN BURKE 


was a circus established in the town — a real circus-troupe 
from the United States! Let’s all go to the circus — here, 
Burke, don’t you want to see the circus? — Hi there, you fel¬ 
low, six — seven — eight tickets to the circus! 

This entertainment was quartered in the bull-ring at the 
Plaza of San Antonio over towards the western part of town; 
the enemy’s mortar-battery had been planted there the night 
of the 23d, and was still in position although quite lost to 
view amongst the gilt-and-crimson circus-wagons parked in 
the open space around it. We got there just in time for the 
“Grand Entree,” and as the parade filed in, brass band, pie¬ 
bald horses, lovely ladies in velvet and tinsel and delicately 
flopping ballet-skirts, the Bounding Jockey, the India-rubber 
Man (with feats on the slack rope), the Hindoo Juggler, the 
celebrated monkey Dandy Jack riding the equally celebrated 
trick pony Comanche, Captain Burke recognized to his vast 
surprise and amusement his acquaintance Mr. Edward 
Badger, limber-legged, in the loose flowing Pierrot costume 
and peaked hat affected by clowns of that era,.striding hu¬ 
morously along, exchanging facetiae with the ringmaster, and 
tremendously popular with the crowd. “I’d r-r-rather-r-r-r 
be a dog —” ! Burke thought it was something of a come¬ 
down for that ornament to the “ legitimate ”; but in this view 
he was mistaken. Badger had probably never enjoyed so 
much distinction in his life; and his song: — 

“ If you like them, why, it’s nothing to me, 

But these are some things I don’t like to see! 

I don’t like to see! ” 

had already been taken up, sung, whistled, hummed by every 
American in Monterey and the camp. Many were the 
things and various that Mr. Badger didn’t like to see; he had 
a hit at everything and everybody connected with the army 
from General Taylor down, and was kept shouting verse after 
verse until he was hoarse as a crow, and the refrain bellowed 
in chorus made the stanchions of the canvas roof to quiver 
where they stood. Badger winked, capered, and made faces 
with as good a will as if he had never dreamed of Hamlet; 
and remarking many acquaintances in the martial audience 
to whom he had been well known at Matamoros, cut a few 
original jokes, not very funny, perhaps, but much more 


THE FIRST OHIO UNDER FIRE 


421 


keenly appreciated than all his clown’s classics. As, for in¬ 
stance, when he mysteriously accosted the ringmaster with 
the inquiry, Was Mr. Thomas L. Crittenden of Kentucky 
present? “No, sir, Mr. Crittenden is not here, sir. Mr. 
Crittenden has gone north with General Taylor’s despatches, 
sir,” which was true; but when the applause which the mere 
mention of Taylor’s name always brought forth had died 
down, the clown, with a wonderful pantomime of relief and 
thankfulness, lugged out a monstrous false nose and clapped 
it into place on his countenance — “It’s safe!” says Badger, 
R tapping this organ happily. “It’s safe!” A witticism which 
||j was received so heartily that his concluding: — 

“ If you like him, why, it’s nothing to me, 

But he’s a young man that I don’t want to see! ” 

was completely drowned out by the din. The Mexicans in 
the rear seats stared and listened, uncomprehending, jabber¬ 
ing among themselves; I never saw a similar gathering of 
their nation so uproarious even when a favorite torero took 
his stand to despatch the bull; we are apt to look down upon 
the southern races for their supposed excitability and want 
of self-control, but I doubt if the shoe is not once in a while 
on the other foot. 

After the performance Burke, much interested in this 
development of Mr. Badger’s career, went down, and find¬ 
ing a small boy, one of the troupe — with a withered little 
anxious face, and a Mexican zarape shrugged about his lean 
stunted shoulders over the spangles and fleshings — who was 
diligently selling candies at the entrance, suborned him 
for a few pennies to guide him to the clown’s lodgings. 
Edward roomed in a house near by with some of his 
professional brethren; and all this crew of Tom Tumbles 
were just sitting down to their dinner when the captain ar- 
0 rived, Badger with his chalk-blanched face and soiled white 
blouse and pantaloons which he had not yet removed. He 
took his face out of a jug of pulque to salute the guest — 
“What ho, Burke! Fighting Nat, 1 hey? Come in — sit 
down — fetch a seat, somebody — make room for the cap- 

1 This senseless sobriquet was bestowed on Burke after the Mon¬ 
terey fight; and he has never since got rid of it. — N. B. 


422 


NATHAN BURKE 


tain there between you!” Nothing could exceed his hos¬ 
pitality; I believe he was genuinely glad to see the other; 
he had heard, he said, that Burke had gone through the 
siege unhurt, and congratulated him warmly. The Jeffer- 
sons? No, they were not with the company; they had gone 
back to the States, as they intended. For himself — as you 
see! He introduced Burke to the others — to the India- 
rubber Man, to the Hindoo Juggler — who spoke Eng¬ 
lish with a remarkably strong Tipperary accent for a 
Hindoo — to the ringmaster and Mrs. Ringmaster, the par¬ 
ents of the candy-selling boy — the captain met them all; 
and he found them, contrary to his previous ideas, most 
honest, kindly, and respectable people. They looked up a 
little to Badger who, as he was rather fond of telling, had 
once acted with Macready— “This was the only thing that 
presented itself — of course I have other positions in view, 
but it will take me some time to decide,” he told his friend 
leniently, in private; “and in the meanwhile, a man must 
live, eh?” 

Burke felt some reasonable doubts that this happy-go- 
lucky artist had anything secure “in view” at all, but he did 
not voice them. Badger and he sat together on one of the 
circus-chests and smoked Mexican cigars and talked an hour 
during the clown’s scant leisure It was at the end of the in¬ 
terview that the latter said suddenly, — it was the first time 
he had mentioned the subject, — “ Guess you don’t hear 
anything from Ducey nowadays, hey, Captain?” “Hear 
anything?” said Burke, a little shocked; “why, you don’t 
know — I thought maybe you didn’t know — but he — he’s 
dead, poor fellow. That is, he’s missing, it’s the same thing 
practically; he hasn’t been heard of since we took the place; 
it must have happened some time during the siege or right 
before.” 

“Yes, I know, I heard all that,” said Badger, eying him, 
quite unimpressed; “but that’s not what they’re saying now 
— it’s all over the camp, you know. They say he nipped 
somebody’s pay, and vamosed with it — cleared out for parts 
unknown — scared blue. Why, you don’t mean to say you 
hadn’t heard that ? ” 


CHAPTER VII 

In which the American Army moves on Tampico 

It was, I believe, about the last of October, and the “Army 
of Occupation” (which we learned from stray and belated 
newspapers was our high-sounding official title) had been 
established at Monterey some six weeks, when those first 
rumors of the Administration’s dissatisfaction with Taylor 
began to circulate; a curious sort of restlessness and activity 
of speculation had already invaded us, everybody thinking he 
recognized the omens of impending change. Twice expresses 
arrived from Washington; General Patterson organized his 
brigade and marched back to Camargo. From day to day 
we understood that General Wool, who had had charge of an 
expedition into Chihuahua, had been heard from, and would 
join us shortly to concert some new move with Taylor. Still 
he did not come; and “When did you hear from General 
Wool?’’ got to be a by-word in the camp, the mere repetition 
of the question one of those pointless jokes by which at times 
the public mind appears to become obsessed, Badger’s 
brilliant pun that Wool wouldn’t come because he’d shrink 
from the journey being also repeated about as if it were the 
choicest possible piece of wit. Thus did we amuse ourselves 
in the intervals of camp duties, and three or four hours daily 
of battalion and company drill. Master grandson, or you 
other young gentlemen under whose eyes this may chance 
to fall, do you think we were a set of thick-skulled, spiritless 
fellows with our routine work and our childish play ? Let 
me tell you that war is as dull a business as ever I heard of, 
for all it has furnished so many dazzling pages to history. I 
have stood in the breaches of a falling city, and have drawn a 
sword and shouted commands on the pitched field ; and I 
have also marched all day in a chilling norther, with eyes 
full of sand, a blistered heel, and a ration of hardtack and 
raw bacon, — which of these experiences to do you suppose I 

423 


424 


NATHAN BURKE 


remember best? Why, the last, to be sure; believe me, it 
took the greater fortitude. 

Early in November, we got notice definitely that the armis¬ 
tice agreed on at Monterey between the Mexican general and 
ours was formally put an end to by our government; and 
orders were posted for the advance of the army on Saltillo, 
General Worth marching first as before, Taylor following 
him with a small body of May’s dragoons for his sole escort, 
according to the general’s reckless habit. “Damn it, old 
Zack’s foolhardy, that’s what he is — plumb foolhardy. 
’Tain’t safe!” Burke overheard a private of his company 
exclaiming indignantly to another. On this Saltillo march, 
our leader received Santa Anna’s answer to his message in¬ 
forming him of the cessation of the armistice; it was so 
ferociously worded as to remove any hopes General Taylor 
may have entertained of a speedy settlement of the difficul¬ 
ties between the two republics. All ideas of peace ought to 
be discarded, said the Mexican chief savagely, “. . . while a 
single North American treads in arms the territory of this 
republic, or while hostile squadrons remain in front of her 
ports!” The hostile squadrons were, indeed, remaining in 
front of her ports to some purpose; already at that moment 
Commodore Connor had taken possession of Tampico with¬ 
out a shot fired; we got the news a fortnight or so later, and 
about the same time General Wool with his column at last 
turned up at Monclova. 

In the meanwhile and amongst all these martial expeditions 
and encounters, Captain Burke’s private affairs had given 
him some little concern. There reached us one day, just be¬ 
fore we marched, a soiled and battered and badly damaged 
parcel of mail, that same parcel whose loss we had mourned 
a couple of months earlier at the time of our movement from 
Matamoros; and how it had been lost and found, and what 
were its adventures between whiles, nobody ever clearly knew. 
It came, oddly enough, in company with another batch of 
mail which was the latest from the States; and Burke, find¬ 
ing a number of letters in both instalments, conscientiously 
read the oldest first in the order of their writing, with a smile 
at his own whim. They were from his partner, young Lewis; 
from a firm of lawyers in Cincinnati of whom Nat knew 
nothing, not even the names, and whose communication filled 


THE AMERICAN ARMY MOVES ON TAMPICO 425 


him with an astonishment not untinged with annoyance; 
and from Jim Sharpless. There may even have been some 
others 1 whose daintiness of tinted paper and slender Italian 
script was badly marred by their wanderings and rough usage 
— but have no fear! However eagerly the captain pounced 
on and devoured these, the public was safe from them; 
Burke would not have confided their contents to any living 
soul at the time, and why should he now, after forty years? 
In the second set there was another from Messrs. Wylie & 
Slemm, containing substantially the same information — or 
misinformation — with additional hints and offers, which 
Nathan put aside impatiently; and then he came upon and 
opened with real pleasure a letter from John Vardaman. 

“-Bravo, Nat!” it began; they had just got the news 

of Monterey; the despatches were in all the papers; might 
one of the unfeeling and unscrupulous Democrats who had 
helped to plunge the country into this barbarous and unjus¬ 
tifiable conflict, congratulate him? The doctor thought 
that Captain Burke was doing pretty well for a Whig, a 
supporter of peace, and lover of concord. “But it is nothing 
more than what we all thought, and, perhaps, expected of 
you,” old Jack added seriously, after a good deal of fun¬ 
poking in the same strain; “and I hope you will come home a 
general, for I don’t believe any man in the army will do more 
to deserve promotion.” Burke read the words in the quiet 
of his little tent, reddening, touched, pleased; he wondered 
if anybody ever had such friends, so kind, enthusiastic, and 
loyal. The letter broke off here abruptly, and was resumed 
under another date a few days later. “I had got this far,” 
wrote the doctor, “when some sudden call interfered; so 
that whatever important piece of news I was about to com¬ 
municate, has gone clean out of my mind. You may have 
heard that old Mr. Marsh has finally retired from business. 
It is the strangest thing to see him on the street at all sorts 
of irregular hours, and hanging wistfully around the doors of 
offices and warehouses, which, I suppose, he was in the habit 
of visiting when he was in the thick of affairs. They tell me 
he won’t even go in and sit and talk now that he has no par- 

1 None of the letters between Captain Burke and Miss Sharpless 
could be found. — M. S. W. 



426 


NATHAN BURKE 


ticular errand, although his friends — or rather the sons and 
grandsons of his friends, as scarcely anybody of his own age 
is left — often invite him. ‘No, no, I don’t care about it, 
Josh, I know what it is to have people idling around in your 
office — their room’s a deal better than their company. 
And let me tell you, young man, you mean well, I know, but 
it ain’t very good business to ask me. Your father wouldn’t 
have done it; I always had a very high opinion of your 
father’s business head. There ain’t any such men as he was 
around nowadays.’ I overheard him saying to Joshua 
Barker the other day — who must be about sixty, by the way! 
It’s rather forlorn to see the old man — makes me quite 
resolute to wear out rather than rust out. The business 
appears to be prospering as usual, without him. My sister 
tells me that Mrs. Ducey has recently bloomed out with: 
item: a splendid new barouche and span of Blue-Grass 
blooded trotters; item: the whole house freshly papered 
from top to bottom; item: a whole new set of full-length lace 
curtains — ‘real lace, John!’ — for the parlor; and item: 
the Lord knows how many grand new toilettes for herself 
and little Miss Blake, made out of bombazine, shagreen, 
popeline — when the ladies go into details I am all at sea, 
but the most elegant and expensive materials, anyhow. By 
all this and other signs, I judge that Ducey must be doing 
exceedingly well, perhaps better than when Mr. Marsh was 
in the office, although that was so short a time ago. Indeed, 
he has intimated to several people that the old man was very 
hide-bound and conservative and had no idea of keeping 
abreast of the times; whereas Ducey means to introduce 
progressive modern methods, and expand the business. I 
know very little about business myself — I think men in my 
profession rarely ever do; but if I had money to invest I 
believe I should trust Mr. Marsh’s judgment, old as he is, 
before William Ducey’s. 

“Jim and his father have at last made up their differences; 
ever since that experience at the Harmony Hall meeting I 
understand the Reverend Mr. Sharpless has shown signs of 
softening. I don’t know how they have compromised — 
two such very uncompromising natures; but Jim goes to 
the house now. He is rather silent and uncommunicative 
for him. Just now he is quite full of going to Mexico — 


THE AMERICAN ARMY MOVES ON TAMPICO 427 


joining the army in some unofficial capacity, as a corre¬ 
sponding agent for some eastern newspaper, he tells me — and 
will probably have told you already. Perhaps it was this 
move of his that hastened the reconciliation. ...” 

A letter from Sharpless in this same mail confirmed the 
intelligence. “Dear Nat,” he wrote, “Not long after you 
read this, I shall be on the bounding briny, sir, — according 
to my present plans, and if nothing falls through, — headed 
for Mexico. Having withstood the guns of Monterey — 
‘with distinguished gallantry’ — I take it you can hold up 
under the shock of this sudden information. I leave here 
for Baltimore the middle of December, and sail from there on 
the Napier the 24th; if we have any sort of luck that ought 
to land us in Tampico in about four weeks — or in Vera 
Cruz, whichever port we are headed for, I am in a pleasing 
uncertainty! Nobody up here knows what is going forward, 
nevertheless every one is perfectly confident that the gov¬ 
ernment contemplates some active hostilities all along the 
coast, instead of this supine blockade; so that perhaps both 
Tampico and Vera Cruz will have fallen by the time I get 
this written, and we can take our choice of either. By ‘we’ 
I mean a fellow named Clarkson of the Baltimore Chronicle , 
and myself, and it is likely some other newspaper-men, edi¬ 
tors or underlings; they are all ‘stampeding’ (you will 
observe I am practising up on the Texas vocabulary!) for 
the seat of war; older journalists tell me there never was 
anything like it seen before — in their young days the mili¬ 
tary authorities wouldn’t have put up with a horde of non- 
combatants trapesing around with the army or after it, and 
writing home and publishing all sorts of information for the 
enemy to read and profit by, etc., etc. What would Welling¬ 
ton have said, what would Bonaparte have said, what would 
General Jackson have said to it, sir? I dare say the truth is 
the old boys never thought of this method of supplying news. 
Clarkson is to be paid a whacking price for articles ‘from 
the front.’ I get my expenses and a more modest wage; 
but the experience will be invaluable. Mexico is so big a 
place, and military movements so erratic, that I can’t be sure 
of meeting you anywhere — still I am hoping. There is a 
great deal of grumbling about Taylor’s liberality to the van¬ 
quished, and the rumor is that he is to be recalled or deposed, 



428 


NATHAN BURKE 


and Scott sent down. I am too far away and know too little 
about it to venture an opinion on the terms of surrender; 
but, arguing from what we know of old Rough-and-Ready’s 
character and previous actions, they would be equitable and 
humane. 

“It is strange to think, Nat, that you have actually been 
under fire, and trained that deadly-sure eye on your brother- 
man, and stranger still to picture poor George Ducey on the 
stricken field. I suppose ‘missing’ is equivalent to ‘gone 
for good/ isn’t it? Of course the day of pillage and burning 
has gone by, and the harpies don’t rob and murder the 
wounded any more; but what might not happen in Mexico? 
In honesty, no one could regret him, but such an end seems 
somehow disproportionately tragic. I went up to the house 
the day after the official returns were published — I hadn’t 
the courage to face his mother sooner. It was rather ghastly 
to see the place very richly furbished up and ornamented — 
they had been doing everything over on a lavish scale lately, 
and were going to give a party the very night the news came. 
Francie was gathering up and taking away the poor wilted 
bunches of flowers that had been used in decoration; she 
came with a grave face and told me that some of her aunt’s 
friends were there, Mrs. David Gwynne — who recently lost 
her only child, Len Andrews’s wife, you know — and others. 
The house was quite besieged with women weeping or ready 
to weep. Everybody takes it for granted that this is the 
last of George. Francie was pale, but entirely self-contained; 
she doesn’t make any pretence of being sorry for George, 
although, like the rest of us, she feels very deeply for Mrs. 
Ducey. I said to her that after all ‘missing’ wasn’t as bad 
as ‘killed’ or ‘wounded,’ and perhaps in the next news he 
would have been found. 

“ ‘Uncle William says we mustn’t hope for that,’ she said 
quietly; ‘he says that if the war were between two civilized 
countries, it might be different, but with savages like the 
Mexicans, you might as well make up your mind to the worst. 
Of course, Aunt Anne does hope a little, though — she will 
until she — she hears, you know. That makes it worse, I 
think. If he had been killed or wounded, she’d have been 
certain , anyhow. I — I want to hear from Nathan — from 
Captain Burke, I mean—’ she interrupted herself, coloring 


THE AMERICAN ARMY MOVES ON TAMPICO 429 


all over her little pale face — ‘he’ll be sure to find George; 
if he can’t, nobody can. I shall feel sure when we hear 
from him.’ 

“ Something impelled me to say, — we were alone in the big, 
forlorn parlor, and nobody could be scandalized by it,— ‘If 
it had to happen, I can’t help being glad that it was George 
and not Nat; I think George could be better spared.’ 

“ She looked straight in front of her, with an extraordinary 
hardening of all her features, and said: ‘ Mr. Sharpless, if it 
wasn’t for poor Aunt Anne, it wouldn’t make a bit of differ¬ 
ence to anybody. I don’t know why it should be any worse 
to say it about a dead person than a live one — it seems worse, 
somehow — but it’s so. George never told the truth in his 
life, and he’s done some mean, contemptible things. And I 
don’t think anything could ever change him. When he was 
a little, little boy he was that way. I remember crying my 
eyes out when I was a little girl thinking that I had to love 
George, because he was my cousin, and I didn’t love him, and 
I couldn’t make myself. After I grew up, of course, I found 
out that you don’t have to love people just because they 
happen to be your relations. But it used to make me 
unhappy ’ — she said all this in a fiery little way very unlike 
her, and I believe was going on with more of it, when she 
seemed suddenly to recollect that she was not talking to 
herself, or ‘having it out’ with her aunt (as her manner 
somehow suggested; I am very much mistaken if this was 
not a sort of sequel to some recent family row about George), 
but was airing a private matter to an outsider ; she stopped 
in a great confusion, red as a poppy, and biting her lips 
and looking at me shamefacedly. ‘ I — I beg your pardon, 
Mr. Sharpless, I suppose you think I’m very mean and silly 
to talk this way — it is mean, I know it — but I — I — it’s so 
easy for me to talk to you — you always seem to under¬ 
stand — ’ 

“‘Do I, Francie?’ I said, a good deal moved, and hopeful, 
and trembling a little, I suppose, ‘you — you like to — you 
care to — ’ 

“ ‘ You’re just the same as a big brother, you know,’ she 
interrupted hastily. But I wasn’t going to be put off that 
way; it may not have been the time and place to say it, but, 
Nat, I couldn’t hold in any longer. 



430 


NATHAN BURKE 


“‘Oh, Francie,’ I said; ‘you know what I mean. I love 
you — I’ve always loved you, I think. I ought not to 
speak about it now, perhaps, but I must. I love you. I want 
you to marry me.’ 

“Does all this bore you to death, old fellow? I can’t help 
it, I feel as if I must talk to somebody. And if you are yawn¬ 
ing your head off, why, blow out the candle, cover up the 
campfire, douse the glim, in short, in whatever fashion is 
popular in Mexico, roll up in your blanket, and go to sleep. 
The excitement is all over, I have done with my eloquence, 
there is nothing more to come, no white satin favors, no rice 
and old shoes, no orange-blossoms and clouds of tulle, no 
necessity for Nat Burke to go down into his jeans for a silver 
cake-basket — none whatever! She wouldn’t have me, and 
cried bitterly, and was sorry for me from the bottom of her 
heart — well-a-day! I asked her if it was because of my 
free-thinking, and she cried out vehemently, No, no, she 
never thought about that, she didn’t care what I believed or 
didn’t believe, and Aunt Anne herself said she was right, and 
not to mind what people said about me. I said, ‘Francie, is 
there somebody else?’ which was not a fair question; and I 
felt properly punished when she sobbed harder than ever 
and wouldn’t answer. I suppose there is; do you remember 
that I once thought it was you, and was quite sure of it when 
you began to tell me of your engagement? I had made 
up my mind never to ask her, because of you. 

“ So I came away to my lodgings, apd they looked bare and 
empty and lonely like my life; Clarkson’s letter had come and 
was lying on the table, which was all littered up with pipes 
and manuscript and dirty bundles of proofs. I used to cherish 
a dream of how she would come into my study, and make a 
delightful little fuss over the disorder and the smell of to¬ 
bacco, and fall to and get me all straightened up in a tre¬ 
mendous flutter of skirts and ribbons — pooh! You’d be 
surprised how hard it was for me to give up that foolish 
fancy; I sat down and morosely accepted Clarkson’s offer 
and invitation on the spot. I think I never was so weary 
of anything in my life as the view from this window, these 
lifeless streets, the faces of my fellow-boarders than whom 
God never made a duller lot, the sight of the wretched little 


THE AMERICAN ARMY MOVES ON TAMPICO 431 


out-at-elbows youngster with ink-smudges on his face and 
warts on his hands who comes from the Journal office for 
my copy, and falls asleep sitting on the top step of the stairs 
outside my door — oh, I am sick of it all. 

‘ I care for nobody, no not I! 

And nobody cares for me ! 7 

That last is not strictly true. I thought it a duty to write 
my father and mother and tell them what I meant to do — 
yellow fever or a stray bullet might come along and finish me 
down there, you know, although, of course, I didn’t dwell on 
those dismal subjects to them. I merely wanted them to 
know where I was and what I was about. Father imme¬ 
diately sent me word to come to the house! It was the first 
time in ten years. I went and we shook hands, and neither 
one of us said a word about our ancient quarrel; it is so good 
to be friends we are afraid of shaking up those grisly old 
bones. I suppose there couldn’t be a stranger reconcilia¬ 
tion, when neither has receded an inch. We have only learned 
a little charity and forbearance with our advancing years; 
he doesn’t want to cane me into Christianity any more, and 
I have the courtesy and common sense to behave with an 
outward show of respect anyhow. When I was a melancholy 
hobbledehoy of sixteen, I thought I must be forever contra¬ 
dicting and disputing, and posing him with unkindly humor¬ 
ous questions. I go there almost every day; it makes my 
mother quite pathetically happy; and I think Mary is 
pleased, too. You know she is very cool always and self- 
possessed, so of course I don’t look for any display of emotion 
from her. 

“ The last I heard from you a mail-bag had been lost; let 
us trust that none of my valuable communications were in 
it. In a little while, I dare say we shall be sending and receiv¬ 
ing messages from Mexico with the speed of light; they are 
trying the Electric Telegraph, and they say it’s perfectly 
practicable even for long distances and over mountain ranges, 
although that seems hardly possible. They talked the other 
day from Washington to New York; the message was re¬ 
peated at Philadelphia, I believe — but even so, the thing 
is almost incredible. They have a system of spelling by dots 


432 


NATHAN BURKE 


and dashes on the machine; but no doubt after a while that 
will be improved on, as it wouldn’t be very available to the 
general public, hampered by a different alphabet. 

###—! ! !— ! !—??—!—### 

“The above is a furious, profane gibe at Fate, couched in 
the Dot-and-Dash dialect! Perhaps its just as well the ‘gen¬ 
eral public’ can’t read it. 

“ Your friend, the 

“Confirmed Old Bachelor, 

“J. S.” 

Burke laid the letter down. Poor Jim! thought the young 
man, regretfully sympathetic; and how unequally are the 
prizes of this life distributed! He himself, as unworthy as 
he was, had the desire of his heart, the love of the brightest 
and sweetest and most beautiful of women, a source of daily 
wonder and pride and happiness to him — while Jim, as 
good a man in every way, must be disappointed. It was 
strange that Francie did not appreciate what was being of¬ 
fered her — but no one can ever tell what a girl will like or 
dislike. He hoped, with a serious face, that she wasn’t 
going to fall in love with, and throw herself away on, some 
worthless fellow; he frowningly ran over all the young men 
of her circle or whom she would be likely to know, not one of 
whom was half good enough for her, to his notion; and the 
thought stayed with him all day, with an unusual sense of 
worry and resentment. 

It did not occupy his mind so much, however, as to inter¬ 
fere with his writing briefly to Messrs. Wylie & Slemm, to 
decline their proposal. “In the course of my legal experi¬ 
ence,” he wrote, “I have repeatedly (as was natural) en¬ 
countered the names and records you mention; so that a 
number of the facts you have discovered were already famil¬ 
iar to me, and my inferences corresponded with yours. While 
I have no doubt that some sort of claim might be estab¬ 
lished, I have never cared to take any steps in that direction; 
and do not care to now. Although constrained to decline 
your services, I beg to assure you of my highest apprecia¬ 
tion—” wrote Nat, with a dreadful sardonic grin—“and 


THE AMERICAN ARMY MOVES ON TAMPICO 433 


remain, etc., etc.” “The shysters!” he ejaculated contemp¬ 
tuously, as he folded up this neat rejoinder. 

It was some little while before the young gentleman re¬ 
ceived any more letters, or found time to write any. Our 
army took the road for Victoria, where we arrived about 
Christmas Day of 1846, as nearly as I remember, in an over¬ 
powering heat, dust, and sunshine, after between two and 
three weeks of a trying march. General Quitman, who 
commanded on this march, took possession of the place with a 
good deal of military ceremony, and no resistance whatever, 
although we lived in the midst of alarms, and were constantly 
being turned out at all hours of the night and day to patrol 
the town, and prepare for a sudden descent of the enemy, 
who, under Santa Anna, were reported to be advancing in 
great force from the direction of San Luis Potosi; indeed, 
we had been somewhat harassed on the way by Minon’s 
cavalry, hanging on our flanks and rear. The troops re¬ 
mained at Victoria, resting, for about a fortnight, during 
which time Twiggs’s division with the general-in-chief came 
in, and also Patterson with his volunteers from the Rio 
Grande, the men very much exhausted, having suffered 
greatly from the want of water on the road. All this coun¬ 
try to the north, however, seemed to be swept clean of 
Mexican soldiery; except for a brush with the guerillas now 
and then, nobody had encountered anything resembling 
armed opposition. We held what we had got; and might 
have been inclined to a little cockiness about our achieve¬ 
ments, had it not been for adverse comment from home, and 
the disagreements between General Taylor and the Ad¬ 
ministration. These had been pretty thoroughly aired by 
this time; everybody had had his say, public and private, 
official and unofficial; General Taylor’s letter to General 
Gaines explaining the whole circumstances of the Monterey 
campaign was published first in the New York Express, 
whence it travelled all over the country; the government 
retaliated by sending out that famous order calling atten¬ 
tion to Paragraph 650 of the Army Regulations: “Private 
letters . . . relative to military operations are frequently 
mischievous in design, and always disgraceful to the army. 
They are therefore, strictly forbidden. . . .” And if you wrote 
any such letter for publication, or placed it beyond your 
2f 


434 


NATHAN BURKE 


control, so that it found its way to the press, you were to be 
dismissed from the service! 

This order, you may be sure, found its way to the press 
fast enough; the political kettle boiled over; strange to say, 
there was more letter-writing than ever. Colonel Jefferson 
Davis explained; Major-general Henderson explained; Brig¬ 
adier-general Worth explained. These gentlemen had all 
been on the Peace Commission at Monterey, and felt it due 
themselves to defend the articles of capitulation. And in 
the meanwhile the army at Victoria heard that it was true 
the War Department had sent Scott down; already he had 
landed at the Brazos; was Taylor to be superseded, sure 
enough, we wondered. And what was all this concentration 
of forces at Tampico about? The place had fallen; we un¬ 
derstood we were to be sent there, and also Worth’s corps now 
at Saltillo; but for what movement, or under what general, 
no one knew, and there were a hundred conjectures. If 
personal popularity and the confidence of the entire army 
could have decided it, there would have been no question of 
the man to lead us. General Taylor could not stir a foot 
abroad without being surrounded, followed, hurrahed for 
until you would have thought the men would burst their 
throats. He visited the camp of the Illinois Volunteers, 
and the honest fellows fairly mobbed him in their eagerness 
to see, speak to, shake hands with, old Rough-and-Ready. 
His orderly rode a prancing cavalry horse, and cut so mag¬ 
nificently military a figure that he was mistaken at first by 
many for the general himself, who fared forth on a big, mild- 
mannered mule and wore his ancient black frock coat, and a 
Texan hat. Nobody enjoyed the joke more than Taylor, 
and when the troops finally discovered him, their enthusiasm 
was even greater than before. Did ever any general shake 
hands with a regiment of raw recruits before, and do it 
without the slightest loss of dignity and authority? In his 
plain ways, his courage and common sense, his enterprise 
and resolution, perhaps we all obscurely recognized whatever 
is best and most typical of the American character, and of 
that vanishing race of pioneers to which we all belonged, 
and felt a pride in him accordingly; and even if his military 
abilities had been less — it is no part of this writer’s plan to 
discuss them — I believe we should all have liked, trusted 
in, and followed him. 


THE AMERICAN ARMY MOVES ON TAMPICO 435 


Except on that one occasion during the attack on Monterey 
it was never Burke’s good fortune to meet General Taylor. 
Before we left Victoria the captain had been appointed by 
General Quitman — with whom he had become very good 
friends — on his staff and to fill the post of military secret 
tary left vacant by Mr. John S. Holt, who was about to return 
to the States; and in this capacity Captain Burke served out 
the war, being, I think, the only volunteer officer member of 
any one of the leading general’s official family, as it was the 
custom to select their aides, etc., from the subalterns of the 
line regiments. By this move the captain missed forever 
the chance, not alone of knowing Taylor, but of taking part 
in the glorious engagement of Buena Vista, and winning 
immortal laurels thereby. He can freely boast that he 
might have won them — who is to deny him? Certainly 
not those who will have to gallop off to their libraries and 
search the Encyclopaedia to find out where and when Buena 
Vista was fought, and what good came of it at last! At the 
time of our departure from Victoria, he was rather congratu¬ 
lating himself on his sagacity or good luck, for it looked as if 
there might be very little activity in this part of Mexico, as 
we now knew and the enemy knew that our movement was 
directed on Vera Cruz, and the interior; and to sit down in 
quiet at some small outpost on the Rio Grande did not at all 
suit with Mr. Burke’s views of a martial career. On the 
15th of January, when our advance had already been two days 
on the Tampico road, it was published in Orders that the 
War Department directed the return of General Taylor to 
Monterey with a certain few of the troops, with which he 
was expected to hold and defend that vast territory, posses¬ 
sion of which had been acquired mainly by his efforts; and 
that we were now under the command of Major-general 
Winfield Scott, practically the whole of the army having 
been thus annexed by the latter. 

It is not my place to pass upon the justice or injustice of 
this governmental decree; and I think posterity has already 
pronounced its verdict on the relative merits of President 
Polk and his cabinet, and Zachary Taylor. “It is with 
deep sensibility,” he wrote, “that the commanding general 
finds himself separated from the troops he has so long com¬ 
manded. To those corps, regular and volunteer, who have 


436 


NATHAN BURKE 


shared with him the . active services of the field, he feels the 
attachment due such associations; while to those making 
their first campaign, he must express his regret that he cannot 
participate with them in its eventful scenes —” and with 
these and other equally brave and kind and manly words the 
old soldier bade us farewell. 


CHAPTER VIII 
Tampico 

Brigadier-general John Anthony Quitman, under whom 
Burke now came to serve, and for whom he had a great 
liking and respect, was at this time between forty-five and 
fifty years of age, of a fine erect and martial figure, and with 
one of the handsomest and most amiable faces ever seen. 
He was a native of New York State by birth, but having 
gone to Mississippi while yet a very young man, married, 
made a fortune, and attained considerable personal and 
political eminence there, was by now more of a Mississippian 
than the Mississippians themselves, as sometimes happens 
with these transplanted loyalties. But, indeed, the general 
was a man to whom any sort of moderate emotions, middling 
standards, halfway measures, were impossible. His enthu¬ 
siastic devotion to the State and her institutions was only 
equalled by his enthusiastic devotion to the country at large, 
to the legal profession — he had been Chancellor of the 
State, and had an extensive practice — to the profession of 
arms which he was now following, to his wife, his family, 
his friends! Whatever General Quitman had to do, that he 
did with all his might and main, displaying an incredible 
boyish ardor, self-confidence, and eagerness. A braver man 
or a simpler and more generous spirit never existed; yet he 
flourished about his military duties like a hero of melodrama; 
he got his men up in line and addressed them with tremen¬ 
dous patriotic and stirring harangues; he wrote glorious 
long oratorical letters when two words of ordinary talk would 
have served the purpose. I remember his once describing 
with profound admiration and in as vivid language as if he 
had been on the spot that celebrated incident of the battle 
of Fontenoy, where the young noblemen of I do not know 
what splendid body of French troops saluted their oppo¬ 
nents of the English line —“Messieurs de la Garde, tirez le 
premier!” and announcing fervently that he thought that 

437 


438 


NATHAN BURKE 


one of the finest chivalric scenes of history! To the rather 
utilitarian mind of his auditor it seemed a needless piece of 
rococo; but Burke and his general agreed to differ with abso¬ 
lute friendliness; there is something, at first sight, almost 
strange in the association of two such widely divergent char¬ 
acters, that inclines one to put some faith in that law of 
the attraction of opposites about which we hear people talk. 

Quitman, as was natural to him when his affections were 
anyways engaged, greatly overestimated Captain Burke’s 
parts and achievements; something in the younger man’s 
sober and occasionally satiric view of men and the world 
pleased him by its very contrast to his own; he used to de¬ 
clare that for hard work and hard knocks their two careers 
were an exact parallel — whereas, except that both had 
been lawyers, nothing could have been more unlike! And 
while extolling openly and with a floweriness of words that 
made the captain to blush and squirm upon his seat, what 
he called the “ laconic brevity ” of Burke’s speech, he would 
pronounce him to be possessed of unusual conversational 
powers when he chose to exert them — the truth being that 
honest Nat, if no such brilliant talker, was an exceptionally 
good listener, which has more to do with being an acceptable 
companion than most people suppose. He came to be the 
repository of all the general’s past history, private affairs, 
his expectations, convictions, aspirations, his mercurial 
woes and joys. He would weep when he talked to Burke 
about the children he had lost, little Edward, little John — 
they had both died in a dreadful tragic manner after only a 
few hours’ illness during the cholera epidemic at Natchez in 
’33; he kept a lock of his father’s hair, the old gentleman, 
who was a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, having 
died at the fairly ripe age of seventy-five some fifteen years 
before, in the odor of sanctity, and having been, I do not 
doubt, a man of intelligence and strong character — but 
few sons, Burke thought, are sentimental enough to keep 
a parent’s memory green after this true-lovers’ fashion. It 
touched the young fellow even while it obscurely amused 
him; he liked his general all the better for that picturesque 
attitudinizing, that freedom and fluency of talk, those eager 
confidences which Burke himself would have been the last 
man in the world to fall into; for somehow, not all of Quit- 


TAMPICO 


439 


man’s plainly perceptible weaknesses and want of balance 
could make him less of a striking and interesting personality, 
a man to command respect. 

On the Tampico march General Quitman’s brigade — 
which now formed part of Patterson’s division — was made 
up of the South Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama regiments; 
so that Captain Burke had plenty of opportunities of becom¬ 
ing acquainted with the “chivalry ” — it was their own expres¬ 
sion — of those Southern States, as represented by their 
officers; and he found them most high-spirited and gallant 
young men. Some of them marched in tolerable state for 
militiamen, with horses, negro body-servants, and various 
small comforts unknown to the Ohio captain — which, 
by the way, they shared with whomsoever lacked, with the 
utmost kindness, tact, and unselfishness. The hardships 
of campaigning were beginning to tell on our men; by the 
last of January, when we reached the sea, they were ragged 
and nearly barefoot; they had not been paid in six months; 
rations were insufficient, there was a great deal of sickness, 
small parties of Mexican lancers or light troops constantly 
annoyed us. Desertions were dishearteningly numerous, 
yes, even from the ranks of those sons of chivalry with whom 
Captain Burke was now associated. If there had been any¬ 
thing materially better to be got by joining the enemy, one 
could hardly have blamed the poor wretches; but the Mexi¬ 
cans were worse armed and fed than ourselves apparently; 
their sole advantage was that they were in the country of 
their birth. We heard that one desperado, by name Thomas 
Riley, who had deserted from the 3d or 4th Infantry before 
the war opened, — I believe, — had gathered to himself up¬ 
wards of a hundred of his fellow-deserters, and formed them 
into what was called (slangily) the “Brigade of Saint Pat¬ 
rick,” from which many got the notion that these turn¬ 
coats were all Irishmen — an unjust and cruel error, for we 
had all remarked that our Irish, or, at least, those who bore 
Irish names, our O’Briens, Murphys, and Flanagans, were 
not only the stoutest of fighters, but inflexibly loyal. One 
of them even trapped very cunningly a Mexican secret agent 
who was trying to lure away some of the men — and had 
succeeded more than once, alas! — with promises of money, 
and an officer’s rank in their army. 


440 


NATHAN BURKE 


Notwithstanding all this discontent, nothing could have 
exceeded General Quitman’s thought and care for his troops 
on the march — wherein he differed notably from most of 
the other commanders whom Burke had the honor to know. 
A volunteer officer’s relations with his men are, in nature, 
more intimate and personal than those between the regular 
army private and his superior; but Burke’s general outdid 
every other in the field, volunteer or regular, in zeal for the 
welfare of his command. It was said that he never laid down 
upon his bed at night without having assured himself that 
every man in the brigade was in his proper place, whether on 
duty or at rest; and when, on our arrival within ten miles of 
Tampico, we were assigned a camping-ground — with that 
strange indifference or contempt of caution which distin¬ 
guishes the American soldier — of a narrow, low-lying strip 
of semi-bog between a lagoon and a piece of jungle, steaming 
with hot moisture and foul odors, and already multitudi- 
nously tenanted by every plague-bred and poisonous insect or 
reptile that grows — when we were ordered to encamp here, 
I say, the general himself mounted a horse, rode to head¬ 
quarters, and presented our case so forcibly that we were 
moved in a couple of days to a much higher and more healthy 
spot among the hills back of the city, and adjoining General 
Twiggs’s camp on the left. The latter had reached Tampico 
somewhat in advance of us; they reported that General 
Scott, though looked for daily, had not yet arrived; the 
town was a wretched little hole, not in the least like New 
Orleans as we had been led to expect — never saw so many 
homely women, and beggars, and dirt, and lice in your life; 
it rained this way, cats-and-dogs, all the time — you’ll see; 
the camp was full of Mexicans peddling pulque, or that other 
stuff — what d’ye call it ? — muscal — and the other night 
the whole division got good and drunk and raised h—1 for 
hours; it’s my opinion Scott had better hurry up and get the 
army out of this, or there’ll be precious little army to get — 
and, I say, Burke, there’s a fellow in the town looking for you; 
some newspaper fellow, the place is running over with ’em, 
you know; tall, thin, black-haired man, I can’t remember his 
name, but he says you’re to look for him at the “ Commercial 
Exchange.” 

And so on, and so on; everybody was out of money, out 


TAMPICO 


441 


of clothes, out of temper. But Captain Burke, pricking up 
his ears at this last intelligence, borrowed a horse from the 
adjutant and rode into the city, where he found the “Com¬ 
mercial” without trouble. Every town in Mexico seemed 
to have a coffee-house, hotel, or other place of public enter¬ 
tainment “del Comercio”; it was like the San Juan rivers, 
of which if there was one, I am sure there were fifty. This 
“Comercio” fronted the main plaza; in spite of a steady 
downpour of rain, the streets were crowded; one could 
hardly push through the archway into the commercial patio; 
and across the court under the arcade running around all 
four sides, the first person Burke saw was Sharpless, tanned 
with the sea-voyage, long and thin in drab linen ducks, with 
a cup of the thick sugary Mexican chocolate before him, two 
other alert-looking gentlemen keeping him company at the 
little round iron-legged table — one of them occupied with a 
note-book and pencil. Jim looked up, seeing Burke — he 
was very quick of eye — almost before the other saw him — 
“What, Nat!” “Hello, Jim!” Lord bless me, it’s forty 
years, and I feel now the delight with which I shook his 
hand! The others beheld this welcome sympathetically; 
if it is a pleasure in a far country to meet a mere townsman, 
think what it is to meet a friend. One of them, when Sharp¬ 
less presently introduced us, was a Mr. Kendall of the New 
Orleans Picayune , the other, Clarkson, whose name Burke had 
already heard. 

James, far from being the disappointed, despondent lover 
who might have been expected, was in admirable health and 
spirits, and gave Burke a very lively account of the voyage 
from Baltimore in one of the army transports on which 
Clarkson had secured berths by some wire-pulling; and 
imitated the men being seasick crossing the Gulf with amaz¬ 
ing fidelity and brilliancy — officers and privates quite dis¬ 
tinct so that one could tell them apart at once! He had left 
everybody at home well, he said except — 

“Not Mary?” 

Oh, no, Mary was all right — “but, Nathan,” he said 
with a grave face, “Mrs. Ducey looks awfully — awfully. 
I suppose there can’t be any doubt about George, hey? 
Honestly, I’ve seldom regretted as much the loss of a valued 
citizen as I have his — not on his account, but for his poor 



442 


NATHAN BURKE 


mother. She’s all swathed up in crape — it looks rather 
pretty and striking with her fair hair — which may be some 
solace to a woman,” said Jim, a little cynically. “But, it’s 
the strangest thing about Francie—” he brought the name 
out with a slight effort, reddening through his sunburn, and 
carefully keeping his eyes in another direction — “she — 
why, she seems to have made up her mind not to even pre¬ 
tend for her aunt’s sake to grieve for George. She doesn’t 
go around in black — not a bit of it! She wears all those 
ribbons and bright clothes they got before they heard the 
news, never misses a party, and if anybody asks her about 
it, says right out that it’s a pity for his father and mother, 
but she’s not going to be a hypocrite and make people think 
she cares except for them! I think—-I suspect, that is— 
there’s been some kind of family schism about George — 
something he’s done or said, or, — or written home, you 
know, Nat,” said Jim, looking at his friend with an odd ex¬ 
pression, “that’s displeased Francie.” Nat was silent a mo¬ 
ment, thinking in a flash of resentment of what George 
might have written — then with an unaccustomed and com¬ 
forting warmth at his heart, “Francie was always a loyal 
little friend,” he said; nor did it occur to him until after¬ 
wards how irrelevant was this remark. Jim began to talk 
about something else. 

“People say Ducey has made a great deal of money the 
last few months. They’re certainly spending a great deal. 
It’s funny, I never thought he was a particularly bright man, 
but I suppose he’s just one of those fellows with a turn for 
business and nothing much else. I’ve known other success¬ 
ful men that were uninteresting to meet socially the same 
way. Old Mr. Marsh must have been a great clog on him 
here these last years — Ducey hints that himself.” 

“Mr. Marsh was the backbone of the business when I 
was there — of course, he’s too old now,” said Nathan, 
wondering a little dubiously at this complete reversal of 
popular opinion and his own past judgments. “What’s Mr. 
Ducey been doing to make such a lot all at once ? Does any¬ 
body know? Army contracts?” 

Sharpless thought not, believed it was some very lucky 
speculations, he didn’t know exactly what; he was rather 
vague. “Business doesn’t mean much to me except pay- 


TAMPICO 


443 


ing your debts, and getting in what’s owing you, Nat, you 
know that,” he said with a laugh. “ Earn a little something, 
and don’t spend it all — that’s my whole creed. I’ll never be 
a rich man.” Which was true, as the years have proved. He 
never quite got over the habits of his early vagabondage, 
saved and invested only at the insistence of his friends, and 
was forever lending or giving away all he had. 

“You got my letter with the interview with ’Liph?” he 
asked presently; “naturally I haven’t mentioned the matter 
to anybody, but, Nat, the fact is, I’m on edge with curiosity. 
Are you the heir to the earldom? Has the iron chest sunk 
in the ground forty feet due north from the blasted oak been 
found? And does it contain the missing will, and the other 
papers proving conclusively that you are your father’s legal 
wife’s son, and not the child of the other lady, who — ahem! 
— was no better than she ought to be?” 

“Oh, drop it!” said Burke, grinning, yet subtly annoyed — 
as references to this subject generally did annoy him. “I 
wrote to those lawyers, and invited ’em in polite language to 
mind their own affairs and leave mine alone. They wanted 
me to put in a claim for some property — of course you must 
have guessed that. They even went and got an affidavit 
from poor old Mrs. Darce that to the best of her knowledge 
and belief I was Nathan Granger’s grandson. I knew all 
about the whole thing long before they came nosing around, 
willing to take it up on a contingent fee, you know. Some 
day there’s going to be a lot of trouble in all these new West¬ 
ern States about land titles; people are so careless about 
having deeds recorded. I’ll bet nine-tenths of the titles in 
our town are clouded; there’s not a man in the place, except 
perhaps Governor Gwynne —” 

“And old Marsh — he’s too sharp ever to buy any property 
he couldn’t get a clear title to,” said Jim. 

“You can’t tell about anybody,” Burke observed oracu¬ 
larly, and shook his head, “at any rate — ” 

“At any rate you’re not going to law over anything — I 
never heard of a lawyer that would,” said Sharpless, his eyes 
twinkling a little. He took an extreme relish in pretending 
sympathy with the vulgar prejudices that attribute every 
sort of cunning and trickery to Burke’s calling; and the 
latter retorted by loudly declaiming against the weakness, 



444 


NATHAN BURKE 


folly, and corruption of the press whenever occasion 
arose! 

The newspaper men, who now occupied Tampico in full 
force, waiting on the movements of the army like terriers 
around a mouse-trap — or, as Jim said, when this compari¬ 
son was made in his hearing, more like mice around a terrier 
trap! — proved a great addition to army circles, an extraor¬ 
dinarily jolly and companionable set, mostly young men of 
some education but more knowledge of the world. General 
Quitman, upon Burke’s presenting his friend, expressed him¬ 
self as delighted with the new acquaintance. Perhaps Jim’s 
political beliefs, and certainly his capacity for interesting him¬ 
self in other people and their points of view, recommended 
him to our camp. “Mr. Sharpless being a Democrat puts 
him in closer sympathy, if I may say it in his presence, with 
us men of the South,” said Burke’s general, in confidence; 
“and as he is a journalist, I have been improving the oppor¬ 
tunity, sir, to remove some of. those erroneous impressions 
which he has gathered from a — er — a somewhat prejudiced 
free-state press. Of course you know, Captain, I refer to 
the siege of Monterey. Almost all the reports were in favor 
of General Worth, to the exclusion of some of those who 
also bore the heat and burden of the day. I have been 
treated with marked neglect by most of the writers, though 
victory followed where I led. It was our vigorous attack, 
Mr. Sharpless, as your gallant and noble young friend here 
can testify, it was our attack on the left that brought against 
us nearly the whole Mexican force, and drew them off from 
the rear where General Worth was operating,” cried Quit- 
man, entirely unconscious in the ardor of his thundering 
periods that this statement was as nearly untrue, or at 
least misleading, as any statement of a perfectly honest man 
could be. “But enough of this! My friends must see justice 
done me; I cannot. I have been silent, except under cen¬ 
sure; I say nothing to neglect. I wrote to General Felix 
Huston — a lifelong friend, sir, and one of the noblest men 
God ever made — exposing the whole matter, and giving 
an accurate account of the behavior of my brigade in the 
actions of the twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-third 
of September — I can show you a copy of the letter — as 


TAMPICO 


445 


a literary man I should like to have your judgment of it. 
There was a paragraph in the Concordia Intelligencer — 
issue of November 14 — calculated to injure me — you may 
have noticed it ?” 

“I — I have to confess I don’t see the Intelligencer, Gen¬ 
eral,” says Jim, who had never even heard of this publica¬ 
tion, and who was listening with the utmost gravity and 
interest; “if it makes a practice of slandering our brave 
and able leaders, I don’t regret it.” 

“No, I would not say that the Intelligencer ‘makes a 
practice’ of slandering us, as you so graphically and forcibly 
put it, Mr. Sharpless,” said the general, gratified; “ but in 
this case they reported, they actually reported, sir, that I 
approved of the armistice. I never approved of it — I 
would have cut off this hand, sir, before I would have ap¬ 
proved of it. In my view, gentlemen, Mexico is ours — it is 
ours to dictate terms to this crushed and quivering country. 
Let it be ours forever — now and forever ! Let the banner 
of our great republic float above this lawless and disorgan¬ 
ized land, let the blessings of our institutions be extended 
to it, let the greedy talons of England be warded off, let the 
hardy American farmer follow up the invasion of war with 
the invasion of peace, and when he surveys this luxuriant 
soil teeming with every — Good Heavens, Captain Burke, is 
that a tarantula by the table-leg? Set your foot on it quick! ” 

Perhaps Burke was not sorry to have an end of the oration; 
he was afraid that Sharpless would misunderstand or under¬ 
value the brave, emotional, vain, credulous, and heroic 
gentleman whose worst and weakest side he was now seeing. 
But Jim, whose judgments of men were seldom anything but 
just and kind, was not unfavorably moved by all these fire¬ 
works; vidi tantum — as he might have and John Varda¬ 
nian certainly would have said; he had seen the world, and 
was not easily misled by appearances. He got Quitman 
to talking of his youthful days, when he had tramped across 
the mountains, a boy of nineteen or twenty, on foot, with a 
knapsack at his back, to teach school in the wilderness of 
Ohio; had studied law, struggled for a bare living, worked 
early and late. It was a little Odyssey of hard work, sacri¬ 
fices, and high ambition. “I sold a brace of handsome 
pistols, cherished possessions — you know how boys are — to 



446 


NATHAN BURKE 


buy a set of Cruise’s ‘ Digest ’; an invaluable work, as I dare 
say you too have found out, Burke,” he said. “Are there 

any deer left in D-County, I wonder? I used to hunt 

them in the woods all around the town — that’s nearly thirty 
years ago, gentlemen —” He was silent a little, thinking of 
those times. When Sharpless rose to go, the general accom¬ 
panied him to the door, invited him to come again in a very 
cordial way, and said earnestly at the last: “I trust you will 
not construe any remarks I may have made awhile ago as a 
complaint again General Worth, sir. That was the farthest 
thing in the world from my mind. No army on earth ever 
boasted a more daring or brilliant officer — none! I have a 
great admiration for General Worth, and he honors me with 
his friendship. I don’t want you to think that I would dero¬ 
gate from the glory he most justly earned at Monterey and 
elsewhere, sir.” 

“I don’t think it, General. Your attitude is perfectly plain 
and most just and natural. Honor where honor is due — 
that’s all you ask,” said Jim, neatly. They shook hands 
with warmth, and Quitman afterwards remarked enthusias¬ 
tically to Burke what an unusually gifted, intelligent, and 
high-minded young man his friend Mr. Sharpless was! 

Somewhere about the third week in February our new 
commander-in-chief, the head of the United States armies, 
General Scott, at last arrived, a fact which was officially 
announced by two or three crashing salutes from the heavy 
guns at the city; hearing which, whoever could get leave 
posted in from camp to have a look at him. In this Captain 
Burke was disappointed; the general stayed only two days, 
very busy at his quarters, seeing only his division command¬ 
ers and the heads of the various departments; but during 
and after this visit, brief as it was, an astonishing increase 
in activity and energy became noticeable throughout the 
army. February 25 the orders were out, and we were all 
to go by sea, ten thousand of us, to the island of Lobos off 
the coast some sixty miles south, to make ready for the de¬ 
scent on Vera Cruz. Everybody packed up once more; the 
familiar cloud of gamblers, brokers, circus riders, and camp- 
followers of all varieties began to melt magically away, dis¬ 
solve, vanish, after their mysterious habit, to reembody 



TAMPICO 


447 


again at our next place of sojourn. The editors and report¬ 
ers bestowed themselves in any number of -weird quarters 
for transportation; Sharpless travelling at the invitation of 
an officer of marines with whom he had struck up an acquaint¬ 
ance, on board the U. S. S. Raritan y which had already har¬ 
bored an illustrious guest on the way from the Brazos in the 
person of General Scott. “What is he like? Did any of 
them say?” Burke asked. But Jim had been unable to get 
an opinion. “Everybody reports that he gets things done” 
was all he could answer. 



CHAPTER IX 

“ And there was War Again —” 

Our army, conveyed by a fleet of eighty transports arrived 
before Vera Cruz city and harbor the morning of March 9, 
1847, and disembarked during that and the following day at 
a point on the shore about three miles south, beyond the 
range of the enemy’s guns, which could only deliver an occa¬ 
sional ineffective fire in our direction — the Mexicans mak¬ 
ing no other attempt to dispute our presence. Nobody was 
hurt, no surf-boats upset, no mishap of any kind occurred, 
and the troops took up their positions in the exact order 
assigned — circumstances so remarkable according to con¬ 
temporary reports and in the general-in-chief’s own opin¬ 
ion that you might suppose no such landing had ever been 
effected since Noah came to anchor on the mount. Taylor’s 
old troops of the Rio Grande were not, however, conscious 
of anything remarkable happening, being by this time of 
a proved philosophy, and made their bivouac amongst the 
shifting sands, congratulating themselves that accommoda¬ 
tions were no worse. There was a high north gale blowing 
which kept up for a week, preventing the landing of the 
siege guns and heavy artillery, nevertheless a close invest¬ 
ment was begun at once, Quitman’s brigade, to that general’s 
unbounded delight, being assigned one of the advanced posi¬ 
tions. 

Vera Cruz, an ordinary Spanish-looking city in other 
respects, possessed the picturesque feature of an encircling 
wall in mediaeval fashion, was defended on the land side by 
the usual redoubts, etc.; and seaward by the strong castle 
of San Juan de Ulloa, built upon a reef of coral rock, squarely 
across from the town, at perhaps a thousand yards’ distance, 
mounting upwards of a hundred guns and commanding every 
part of the harbor, which, by the way, was full of variegated 
and outlandish foreign shipping at the time of our arrival, 

448 


“AND THERE WAS WAR AGAIN— ” 


449 


and continued so during the whole of the siege! Our batter¬ 
ies were at length got into place, and the trenches opened on 
the 22d, when General Scott formally summoned the city; 
the Mexican commander, General Morales, declining, the 
bombardment began; and after four days and nights of 
almost uninterrupted firing from both sides, Vera Cruz was 
unconditionally surrendered. The American loss was not 
more than a hundred men, so poorly did the Mexicans serve 
their guns, while the latter’s list of killed and w T ounded was 
reported at ten times as many, exclusive of the unfortunate 
non-combatants shut up within the walls whom our shot and 
shell could not spare. The garrisons of both city and for¬ 
tress — about three thousand in all — marched out with the 
honors of war, saluted their flag, and laid down their arms 
on the 29th; and the same day we took possession. 

There were about this siege none of the sensational inci¬ 
dents nor any of that bloody and resolute hand-to-hand 
fighting which had marked the taking of Monterey. Burke, 
remembering his own experiences, and also the determined 
resistance and awful scenes of Saragossa and Badajoz about 
which he had read in Colonel Napier’s history, looked for 
something of the same nature here, where the inhabitants 
were still of the Spanish blood, if somewhat diluted, and had 
a similar environment in this old walled city, these stout 
defences. Either they were greatly fallen off from the virtues 
of their ancestors, he judged, or they offered an example of 
the house which, divided against itself, shall not stand. In 
the midst of the siege their General Morales resigned or was 
deposed,- General Landero succeeding him; so that Scott 
summoned one man, and received the surrender from another, 
the change not seeming to advantage them much. It is to 
be doubted whether there was at this time one single man 
or body of men in Mexico with whom our government could 
have treated authoritatively and securely. Half a dozen 
dictators or clusters of dictators had risen, reigned a brief 
day, been overthrown and put to flight since the war began. 
Ampudia, our opponent at Monterey, lay in prison at Perote, 
awaiting trial for the surrender of that city; Santa Anna, 
himself a popular idol, if all reports were to be believed, upon 
the losing of a battle might be in fell disgrace to-morrow. 
We are accustomed to the violent and groundless prejudices, 


450 


NATHAN BURKE 


the irresolution and instability, the crazy humors of our own 
mob; yet we can always count with confidence on the sober 
common sense of the nation triumphing at last. The end¬ 
less and motiveless changes, the factional quarrels equally 
bloody and futile of which the Mexican history of this era is 
full — so full that one student at least has never been able 
to make head nor tail out of it, although so much passed be¬ 
neath his own eyes! — would be impossible to us. It was 
not strange that we should have looked with contempt on 
this half-developed race struggling after law and order 
with a childish idea of blind, brutish, enforced obedience, 
but none whatever of voluntary and manly subjection; and 
wondered that individuals so mild, docile, and patient as the 
average native should become in the mass at once so savage 
and so silly. 

The part which Burke’s general and his forces took in the 
siege of Vera Cruz has been described in two lines by Scott 
and other unappreciative historians as a brisk skirmish result¬ 
ing in the driving in of the enemy’s outposts — which is 
exactly what it was, no more nor less; but if Quitman could 
have forseen that posterity was to receive so light a report of 
these actions, what would have been his indignation! We 
took up a position among some sand-hills; and the Mexicans 
coming out against us in considerable strength with both 
horse and foot were obliged to retire after some sharp firing 
in which they were backed up by the cannon from the city, 
the engagement lasting, I think, about two hours. Cap¬ 
tain Burke, riding backwards and forwards from one end of 
our line to the other in his quality of aide, got his share of the 
hard knocks this time, a bullet in the upper arm, fortunately 
missing the bone — the only wound he received, let me say 
it at once, in all his campaigning, and that not a severe one. 
General Quitman himself had no chance at this particular 
sort of glory, the enemy retreating before we could come 
to grips with them, something which he certainly regretted. 
To have battered a hole in the city wall, and stormed through 
it, "my brave Carolinians,” "my noble Georgians” — as he 
was fond of calling them — at his back, would have suited 
him much better. And receiving about this time authentic 
news of Buena Vista, and the laudable conduct of "my gal¬ 
lant Mississippians ” on that hotly contested field, he was a 


“AND THERE WAS WAR AGAIN— ” 


451 


good deal affected, and wished for the fortieth time that he 
had been with them. “The volunteer arm, however, serves 
under a disadvantage, Burke, under a very great disadvan¬ 
tage,” he would say in his depressed moods; “there is so 
much adverse feeling among the regulars and elsewhere 
higher up, one can have hardly any hope of recognition or 
promotion for us. I went to call on President Polk in Wash¬ 
ington after receiving my appointment to the brigadier- 
generalship, and I soon saw — ” said the general, in a tone of 
dark significance. “ I soon saw ! Polk, sir, is a cold-hearted 
aristocrat, hide-bound in conventionalities — very different 
from General Taylor. Even he did not accord me the full 
measure of appreciation after Monterey. If a regular 
officer of corresponding rank had had his horse shot under 
him, would it have been overlooked? But my name does 
not even appear once in the despatches. As to the major- 
generalship, I think of it no more. After all, it suffices for 
a man to feel that he has done his duty. The plaudits of the 
multitude are naught to us,” said the general, with a sigh. 

He was, nevertheless, as susceptible to the plaudits of the 
multitude as many another honest gentleman and brave man; 
and notwithstanding his disclaimers, the major-generalship 
for which he longed — and which, indeed, he thoroughly de¬ 
served — was rarely out of his thoughts. Burke liked him 
none the less for that stout ambition; the young fellow was 
conscious of certain aspirations of his own, although I do 
not think they ever caused him one-tenth the anxiety and the 
heartburnings he observed in his superior. Both general 
and aide were by no means ill-pleased when the commander- 
in-chief, a few days after the fall of Vera Cruz, despatched 
Quitman’s brigade with a squadron or so of regulars and a 
section of a field-battery against the town of Alvarado a little 
farther down the coast, this movement to be executed jointly 
with a part of the naval force under Commodore Perry. 
Off we went in high feather — but, alas for glory! In this 
expedition we were fated to emulate the king of France and 
his fifty thousand men. Within fifteen miles of Alvarado, 
after a two days’ march, there came a note from Mr. Midship¬ 
man Temple of the Scourge, ship of the line, to inform us 
that the spiritless Mexicans had already surrendered the 
town without a shot fired to Commander Hunter of that 



452 


NATHAN BURKE 


vessel, upon his appearance before their harbor, and that 
nothing was left for the land forces to do but to hold it until 
further orders! “You’re getting ’em dealt out from the 
bottom of the pack!” said a journalist friend of Captain 
Burke’s, with a quite diabolical grin, observing the down¬ 
cast faces of the officers. Sharpless had attached himself 
to the column in company with a Mr. Moses Beach of the 
New York Sun; and both gentlemen performed very 
creditably as amateur campaigners, marching and camping 
with the best of us, and writing prodigious long accounts 
home to their respective papers, which they managed to get 
mailed somehow wherever we were. 

The brigade marched back to Vera Cruz within the week, 
reaching there after the main body of the army had set out 
towards Jalapa; and our ill-luck still held. For although 
we pursued them hot-foot, almost without rest and entirely 
without any kind of transportation, the men carrying their 
knapsacks, ammunition, and seven days’ rations on their own 
shoulders, we only got up in time to hear the booming of the 
last guns at Cerro Gordo. The enemy were in full retreat; 
the castle had fallen; Santa Anna, Almonte, Canalizo, all 
the heroic Mexican chieftains had taken to their heels, 
except General Vasquez, who was killed in the assault, and 
half a dozen other generals who were prisoners; our General 
Shields had been shot through the lungs and was thought to 
be dying; Twiggs’s division stormed the heights, Worth’s 
was in pursuit of the demoralized fugitives — and where was 
Quitman on this splendid day? It was a bitter pill which 
not even the intelligence of his major-general’s appointment, 
so ardently coveted and received a few days later, could 
help down! 

As we advanced, the heavily fortified position of La Hoya 
with all its artillery and works was abandoned without a 
blow struck; and on the 22d of April Worth and his divi¬ 
sion took possession without resistance of the town and 
fortress of Perote, the latter strong enough, one would have 
thought, to have held out indefinitely against double our 
numbers. About a fortnight later the American army 
entered Puebla, and we stacked arms and laid down to 
sleep in the public square of that city surnamed — and 
misnamed — “of the Angels.” 


“AND THERE WAS WAR AGAIN— ” 


453 


We stayed here, awaiting reenforcements, until the first 
part of August, to the great restlessness and discontent of 
those amateur tacticians at home, who had been so ready 
with their criticism at the time of Taylor’s delay on the Rio 
Grande. Captain Burke, who now considered himself a 
veteran, looked back upon those weeks at Matamoros the 
summer before with pity and wonder at his own inexperience, 
his naive ideas. Our friend Nat thought that he had gone 
through a good deal, as much as falls to most men, since then; 
he had faced an enemy’s fire, and snapped a trigger himself; 
he had tramped weary miles; he had seen wounds and disease 
and death overtake many a better man than Nat Burke. Here 
he stood alive and well and roaming about the streets and 
churches of the City of the Angels, not being treated in alto¬ 
gether angelic fashion by the senoritas from whom presum¬ 
ably it got its name, in spite of the painstaking Spanish com¬ 
pliments which he and his friend Sharpless addressed to them. 
We drilled early and late at Puebla; we visited Cholula, the 
pyramid, and toiled up its steep road to the church at the 
top that took the place of the awful sacrificial temple of the 
Aztecs; and speculated and guessed in vain over its forgotten 
builders; and dickered with the natives for the grim little 
stone idols they dug up among the rubbish along its disor¬ 
dered slopes. It was a pleasant time; and I am sure Captain 
Burke wrote home reams of poetical descriptions to some¬ 
body, though he never cut out much of a figure as a poet. 
He used to climb, for this purpose, to the flat roof of the 
house where we were quartered, of an evening, whence in the 
semitropic dusk under vivid stars we could still see the white 
summits of the two mountains that looked from the other 
side, we were told, upon the “City” of Cortez and Monte¬ 
zuma — Captain Burke found the scene most inspiring. 
One of the numerous families lodging around the patio below 
kept a coop or two of chickens on the roof; and everybody 
hung out the wash there, so that it was not so romantic a 
locality as the reader may have imagined. Yet Burke 
fancied it; he made himself quite at home among the poultry 
and the flapping wet sheets; and a pair of Mexican mothers 
who came and sat there with their babies for the evening 
coolness got used to his presence, and even welcomed him 
with shy smiles. 



454 


NATHAN BURKE 


These were not, however, the only letters Burke wrote. 
No, indeed; he was very busy with his pen a good part of 
the time on his superior’s correspondence. It soon became 
apparent to some of us that major-generalships, like other 
prizes, are not infrequently a sort of Dead Sea fruit, apples of 
Sodom fair to look upon but a great disappointment to the 
palate. Burke’s general for a while appeared to be rapidly 
nearing or already in a position where he would, indeed, 
have been that young man’s general, but the general of noth¬ 
ing and nobody else! The term of service of four or five of 
the volunteer regiments being about to expire, they were to 
be sent home; Major-general Patterson was already without 
a command and had started for New Orleans, and General 
Quitman presently found his troops reduced to two regiments, 
and himself expected to receive orders from Worth who was 
as yet only brevetted to the same title, and whom Quitman 
supposed he ranked. A man of much less spirit and intelli¬ 
gence than Quitman would have resented these infringements 
of his rights and dignities; it can be imagined in what a 
strain of eloquence the general assailed his superiors. He 
dictated letter after letter to his military secretary, striding 
about the room at his headquarters, fuming, scowling, and 
vociferating. . . . “My juniors in rank, entitled only to 
brigades, are in command of divisions, consisting of five and 
six regiments each. This army would present the singular 
spectacle of brigadier-generals commanding divisions, colonels 
and lieutenant-colonels commanding brigades, and a major- 
general commanding less than a brigade! 

“ (Paragraph there.) I have to call the attention of the 
general-in-chief — (No, scratch that out, Burke, I won’t 
say that) — I will not at this time present my views of the 
humiliating position. ...” and so on while the aide labored 
after him through a dozen argumentative sentences, wonder¬ 
ing if the general-in-chief — to whom Quitman always ad¬ 
dressed these memorials ceremoniously in the third person — 
would ever find the time or patience to read them. 

“ Why don’t you go and see him yourself, General, and have 
it out? That would save time, wouldn’t it?” he once ven¬ 
tured; but Quitman frowned away the suggestion. 

“The question is too serious to be presented otherwise than 
in strict accordance with military forms and usage, Captain 


“ AND THERE WAS WAR AGAIN — ” 


455 


Burke/'’ he said severely. And so, after he had written out a 
fair copy — and another for reference — Nat, with a solemn 
exterior, himself carried and presented it to General Scott, 
seeing his own general’s anxiety that so valuable a document 
should run no risk of loss. As army headquarters were 
around the corner only a step away, there would not have 
been much danger of this happening; and our commander, 
to tell the truth, did not welcome his subordinate’s letter 
with signal respect or attention. “I have no leisure for a 
laborious correspondence with the officers I have the honor to 
command, and who are near me,” he wrote in answer; and, 
in fact, said as much rather impatiently in Burke’s hearing. 
He had been engaged upon a literary effort of his own, a 
proclamation to the Mexican people, reviewing the success 
of our arms, and urging a speedy settlement — “Mexicans! 
The past cannot be remedied, but the future may be provided 
for. Repeatedly have I shown you that the government and 
people of the United States desire peace, desire your sincere 
friendship —” these rotund sentences penetrated to the 
emissary as he waited with Quitman’s letter — it was the 
second one — in the anteroom. General Scott kept much 
more state than our other commanders; the rough-and-ready 
style had quite gone out; and he never appeared even on in¬ 
formal occasions in anything but the most rigid regimentals 
— no slouch hats, bandannas, and cotton ducks for him. 
When Captain Burke was shortly ushered into the august 
presence and beheld for the first time the commander-in¬ 
chief close at hand, over six feet of him, all glorious with 
epaulets and buttons, with thick waving leonine gray hair, 
with his strong lined face, and what I have no doubt the gen¬ 
eral himself would have been pleased to hear called his “eagle 
glance” — I say, when Nat was thus introduced to General 
Winfield Scott, his knees should have smitten together, and 
his teeth chattered in his head. Nevertheless, he managed 
to keep a tolerably cool countenance, saluted, handed in his 
letter and stood at attention while the general accepted it, 
not quailing at all, nor swaggering either (I hope) beneath 
the species of casual glower with which he was favored. 

“Oh — ah — Captain Burton, I believe?” says General 
Scott, negligently; “from General Quitman — yes, I’ve had 
two or three from him already— ” with which he tossed it 



456 


NATHAN BURKE 


unopened on the table, turned his back on Burke, and went 
on dictating. “Cease to be the sport of individual ambi¬ 
tion, and conduct yourselves—” were the last words the 
captain heard as he went out of the door — with a rather red 
face, I dare say. 

Of course the general-in-chief was extremely busy at this 
time on highly important affairs; his every action, for that 
matter, was of importance in the eyes of General Scott, 
whether it was eating “a hasty plate of soup” or directing a 
campaign. He was a very brave man, an able administrator, 
undoubtedly one of the greatest, if not the greatest, military 
genius this country has ever produced; and he had before this 
date performed many difficult and brilliant feats in making 
both war and peace, which he was quite willing the world 
should know about — even if he had to tell them. He had — 
— and deserved — the utmost confidence of all under him 
from the highest to the lowest; whether their affection also, I 
cannot say. It is not necessary to a general’s success that he 
should be liked by his troops. It is not even necessary that 
he should be liked by anybody. Witness General Scott’s own 
account of the frightful odds in the way of personal prejudice 
against which he always had to contend; throughout his long 
career he was eternally at loggerheads with some base critic 
of his acts from the time when, as a young man, he was sus¬ 
pended from the army for a few months because of careless or 
insubordinate talk about his superiors, to his recall before the 
military court at Frederick to answer charges made against 
him in Mexico. Never was a great man so persecuted by 
arrogant Presidents, by jealous brother officers, by spiteful 
underlings, by an ungrateful public. He has told us all about 
it in his autobiography, and surely he ought to know! Is it 
anything to wonder at that Mr. Burke should have displayed 
an equal narrowness of mind with this raft of enemies? He 
did not appreciate the general; he wondered that so much 
ability should be so vain and pompous; he resented Scott’s 
later patronage as much as his first incivility; and, finally, 
although a good Whig, he voted the Democratic ticket in 
1852 when Winfield Scott was the former party’s candidate. 

General Quitman was one of those few who never maligned 
the commander-in-chief, nor caballed against him, as even 
that much-abused gentleman admits. But, in truth, Burke’s 


“ AND THERE WAS WAR AGAIN—” 


457 


general, who was the most loyal, high-minded, and kind- 
hearted of men, would have sacrificed all his prospects and 
submitted to much greater injustice rather than stir up any 
kind of open and discreditable dissension in the army. Al¬ 
though he did, unquestionably, rank General Worth, he gave 
up that point gracefully and modestly with hardly a word; 
and with all his ambition and his restless courage consented 
to remain at Puebla in his anomalous position without a suit¬ 
able command until at General Scott’s convenience and upon 
the arrival of the fresh levies, a new distribution was made by 
which he was assigned to the Fourth Division, consisting of 
volunteer regiments from New York, Pennsylvania, and 
South Carolina, and a detachment of U. S. Marines. The 
8th of August we moved on Mexico City. 

(The editor freely confesses that she sees nothing “vain” 
or “ pompous” in General Scott’s manners on the above occa¬ 
sion; nor anything elsewhere to warrant the sarcasms Gen¬ 
eral Burke so liberally bestows on him. It is strange that a 
man of Burke’s character should have taken undying offence 
upon so trivial a cause; that he did is abundantly evidenced 
not only in this passage, but at almost every reference he 
makes to Scott. He seems to have been not ashamed but 
uneasily aware of this small prejudice; and clears his con¬ 
science once in a while by a few words of studied and per¬ 
functory praise. — M. S. W.), 


CHAPTER X 


Contains Some hitherto Unprinted History of the 
Mexican Campaign 

During the following weeks Captain Burke, whatever his 
personal prejudices, would have been obliged to admit that 
our army under the new head was, as a whole, regulars and 
volunteers, old levies and new, a much more efficient, skil¬ 
fully handled, rapid-moving, ready, and steady organization 
than that which the young gentleman had first honored with 
his company and support at the beginning of this war. Gen¬ 
eral Scott had the same means and a good many of the same 
men as General Taylor, the same country and foe, the same 
harassing departmental instructions and misunderstandings, 
the same sudden and critical needs, obstacles, emergencies — 
where and in what was the improvement? I do not know; I 
cannot say that we were any better drilled or cared for — yet 
unquestionably we were a better army. We had put un¬ 
bounded confidence in Taylor, a plain-spoken man, of quiet 
habits, and not particularly distinguished appearance; and 
we felt precisely the same confidence in Scott who went 
about in a prodigious martial array, orating, dictating, filling 
the air with sound and fury, magnificent and imposing in all 
the buttons, fringes, plumes, and gilt trumpery his uniform 
could possibly accommodate. We cheered him, too, when our 
general pranced forth at the head of his staff; we admired 
and respected him, gold braid and all. We even read his 
proclamations; and the minor generals or officers who were 
sometimes invited to sit at his august table and share his 
dinner, laughed at his jokes, and listened to his stories about 
Lieutenant Winfield Scott, Captain Winfield Scott, Major 
Winfield Scott, Colonel Winfield Scott with deference, and, 
what is more, with a real interest. For they were true; they 
were true reports of great and unusual achievements. They 
lost nothing by the hero’s telling; General Scott never 
spared us a word that he had uttered nor his most minute 

458 


HITHERTO UNPRINTED HISTORY 


459 


act; and after all, considering the facts, I never knew a man 
who had a better right to blow his own trumpet. Mercy on 
us, what a solo did the general perform on that instrument! 
He had always had the deciding word in every argument, the 
final repartee in every contest of wits, the most prominent and 
difficult role in every dilemma. It was easy for his audience 
to see — even if attention had not been called to it — that 
such a man with such abilities would have shone in any 
career — how lucky that he had chosen the military! He 
could discuss diplomacy with the Administration, law with 
General Quitman, letters with Mr. Sharpless (whose company 
he rather affected; most men liked Jim), equally versatile, 
facile, and luminous. And both these latter, who were as 
different by nature as any two human beings could well be, 
listened to him with an attention profoundly enthusiastic on 
Quitman’s part, slightly amused, but always interested on 
Jim’s. 

“Of course, the old fellow is tremendously cock-sure and 
arrogant, I know that, Nathan,” he said in private moments; 
“but what if he is? What if he does blow around? By 
Jingo, he’s got something to blow about. He’s almost in¬ 
variably right; he’s sane and just with all his gasconading. 
He’s a big man in spite of it. It’s extraordinary, such a 
character; nobody could imagine him — he’d be unbeliev¬ 
able in a book, or I’d like to put him in one.” 

“ With all my heart — put him in a book, do! ” said Burke, 
rather dryly. 

“Put him in and keep him there, hey?” said the other, 
and laughed. “Don’t be sarcastic, Nat, it doesn’t suit you. 
Sometimes, do you know, I think you might be a tolerably 
good hater, if it ever came into your head to dislike any¬ 
body — oh, no — ” he added and laughed again, as Burke 
opened his mouth to object — “oh, no, I know very well 
that we don’t dislike our commander-in-chief — of course 
not! — and : n any case we wouldn’t permit ourselves to 
criticise him. What, criticise our superior officer to an out¬ 
sider? Never! And anyhow, here lately we have been look¬ 
ing rather gloomy and down-in-the-mouth. What’s the 
matter, Nat?” 

“ Why, nothing, nothing at all. I don’t know why I should 
look gloomy, I haven’t anything to be gloomy about,” said 



460 


NATHAN BURKE 


Burke hastily, and wincing a little under his friend's scrutiny. 
“ Heat, vermin, touch of malaria, maybe. I wish these in¬ 
fernal Mexicans would stand up for once and fight it out, and 
let us get the business over and done with! " he burst out in 
an impatience and irritation wholly foreign to him. He got 
up restlessly and walked to the open canvas flap of the tent. 
They were in camp at a place called, I think, Buena Vista, a 
hacienda and village about halfway down amongst the 
mountains approaching Mexico City; it was on the ancient 
road that Cortez took, very little changed since his day. A 
great deal has been said and written about the beauty of this 
capital seen from a distance, a great deal about fairy spires, 
crystal air, Popocatepetl exalted among the clouds, the sur¬ 
rounding lakes like fallen stars, and so on; it must be owned 
that Mr. Burke, being, perhaps, a little out of sorts or tem¬ 
per, was not much impressed by these scenic effects. Buena 
Vista — Beautiful View, indeed! He surveyed it sourly. 
The village was a sordid little group of adobe huts, pullulat¬ 
ing with flea-bitten dogs, donkeys, babies, men and women; 
we were as yet miles from the city, and its fairy spires were 
invisible to any but the eye of romance. The lakes acquired 
some importance — but no beauty — from being almost 
the only water, except that which fell from the heavens, we 
saw in our Mexican journeyings; the vegetation was the 
contorted growth of the tropics, unwholesomely green or 
bleached to powder, studded with fantastic flowers, heavy 
with tasteless fruits, unfamiliar, unkind. There was a sort 
of goblin monstrosity about the landscape with its unnatural 
jumble of altitudes and temperatures. Oh, for one glimpse 
of the hills of home! It was August and even the hills of 
home would have been more or less parched and dusty, the 
streams half dry, the air lifeless — but Nathan did not re¬ 
member that. 

“Seems as if we hadn't had any letters for a long while, 
doesn't it?" said Jim casually — not so casually, however, 
but that Burke darted a quick, almost a suspicious glance at 
him. The mail from the States had come less than two 
weeks before; he wondered if Sharpless could have noticed 
anything — could have noticed, for instance, that there was 
no letter from Mary, nor had been since — since how long? 
Nat averted his mind; he did not want to know. Instead, 


HITHERTO UNPRINTED HISTORY 


461 


that mail had contained, a good deal to the young man’s as¬ 
tonishment, a letter for him from Miss Clara Vardaman. 
The thing had never happened before, and Nathan, who 
would not have dreamed of soliciting the lady’s correspond¬ 
ence, was proportionately surprised at her offering it; Miss 
Clara was an embodied convention, a kind of walking Man- 
ual-of-Etiquette for spinsters; for a moment he feared some 
catastrophe — the doctor might be ill. No such thing; John 
was in good health, Miss Vardaman herself was in good health, 
everybody was healthy and prospering; she hoped it was the 
same with him, and rejoiced to think he had escaped the 
hazards of this dreadful war so far, and, if he would let her 
say it, with so much honor. She was following the movements 
of the army with the greatest interest. A great deal 
got into the papers, and was circulated about in other 
ways that was not true. But one could always tell. She made 
it a point not to believe all the silly and terrible stories she 
heard, and John said she was quite right. Seeing was be¬ 
lieving, and she did not mean to rely on anybody’s judg¬ 
ment but her own. There was really no news in town. It 
was a little out-of-the-way for her to write to him; but she 
thought he might be lonely so far away from home. And 
she was always his attached and faithful friend, Clara Varda¬ 
man. 

Burke had read the letter through perplexed and a little 
touched; there was nothing in it; it was a sudden and rather 
uncalled-for expression of good-will. She thought he might 
be lonely; well, Miss Clara was always kind, and if this par¬ 
ticular species of kindness seemed to him quite out of her 
character, it was none the less pleasant and grateful; and 
what did he know about women’s characters, after all? Ire 
finished with a whimsical sigh. “ No news is good news, any¬ 
how. One always hears the calamities too soon,” Jim 
went on, exaggerating the casual tone perhaps. “I —I 
was wondering if at home they had any inkling — if poor 
Mrs. Ducey could possibly have heard anything about George, 
you know.” 

“Hey? About George?” 

“ Why, yes. Pshaw, Nat, the whole army knew about him 
there at Monterey; half a dozen different men have spoken 
about it to me. They all say it’s never happened in our army 


462 


NATHAN BURKE 


before, an officer regular or enlisted, to desert — Benedict 
Arnold on a small scale, that’s how they look on George, only 
not so dangerous —” 

“I should think not,” said Burke, somewhat amused. “If 
George did desert, it wasn’t to go over to the Mexicans — not 
willingly, anyhow. He just wanted to get away where there 
wouldn’t be any fighting. Very likely the poor fellow’s dead 
by this time — he couldn’t go home — he couldn’t take care 
of himself. Let him be. He wasn’t much good, but he wasn’t 
much harm either.” 

“Wasn’t he?” said Sharpless, hesitating and flushing; 
“I — I don’t know about that, Nathan.” Burke turned 
around quickly, and for an instant they looked at each other. 
Neither had ever touched this subject before, near as they 
were together in spirit; pride, loyalty, noblesse oblige , a 
decent reserve, — call it what you choose, — some feeling had 
kept them both from questions. 

“George wrote home a long, scandalous story, a — a vile 
story about you and some woman, Nat,” said Sharpless, 
answering his friend’s look with a hot and shamed face; 
“he wrote to his mother and I don’t know who else. It went 
all over town. People love to talk about a thing like that, 
somehow — even when everybody knows that George 
Ducey is a born liar and no earthly account, and they 
wouldn’t listen to anything else he told under oath—” 
he spoke with hurried and broken phrases, suffering far more, 
I think, in this revelation than Burke, who had perhaps un¬ 
consciously steeled himself against it. 

“Do they believe it?” Nat asked, quite calmly. 

Sharpless made a gesture of helplessness. “Nathan, 
I don’t know — people are so — if it had been anybody 
but you, any other young fellow, somebody who hadn’t 
always been so steady and upright and — and straight , 
I Relieve on my soul they wouldn’t have paid one-fourth as 
much attention to it! But you! It seemed to make a par¬ 
ticularly choice morsel for every cursed busybody in the place. 
Believe ! You can’t tell what people believe — they like to 
talk, anyhow. I — I don’t think Miss Blake believed it —” 
said Jim, evading the other’s eyes. “She —I — naturally 
we couldn’t speak about it — it’s shameful for a girl like her 
to have to hear such a thing, but of course the older women 


HITHERTO UNPRINTED HISTORY 


463 


all think it’s their duty to warn the young ones. Women are 
that way, you know. I think it’s likely Francie didn’t under¬ 
stand all of it. But from the way she spoke to me about 
George — from various things she’s said, I’m sure she didn’t 
believe it.” 

He paused apprehensively; it was doubtless in his mind, 
as it certainly was in Burke’s that the next question might 
very well be, Did his sister Mary believe it? And whether 
it was supreme confidence or a torturing distrust that kept 
that question back, Nathan himself could not have told. 

“They hadn’t stopped pawing it over when I left home,” 
Jim went on after a minute’s silence. “ You’ve got to being a 
kind of public character with us, you see, Nat, — 'Fighting 
Burke’ and all that, you know. I suppose you have to 
expect to be talked about. It doesn’t make much difference 
to the men; good or bad, we take one another pretty easy; 
we’ve got to fadge along. But the women — you’d have to 
demonstrate by every species of proof known to the human 
race that the report was without even the slightest founda¬ 
tion before they —” 

“Oh, it has a foundation,” said Burke, grimly; “it has a 
solid foundation. If I tell you—” 

“I don’t ask you to tell me anything, Nat!” 

“But I’m going to tell you—” Burke said; and he did, 
the whole poor story without reservation. “You see how 
it was; you see there wasn’t any getting out of it, even if 
I’d wanted to,” he finished. “I have to take care of Nance, 
no matter how people look at it. I knew that from the 
start, as soon as I found out the poor girl had gone all wrong 
— I knew what we’d look like to outsiders — to the world at 
large. There isn’t any explaining — how in the name of 
Heaven could you give any explanation? It wouldn’t be 
in Nature for anybody to believe you. It’s perfectly reason¬ 
able for George Ducey or anybody else to draw the worst 
sort of inferences. Jim, I had to make up my mind one way 
or the other, right then and there; would I take Nance or 
leave her? And I don’t see how I could have acted any dif¬ 
ferently; and any man on earth would have done the 
same—” 

“I don’t know whether they would or not,” said Sharpless. 

“I did hope there wouldn’t be any talk,” said Burke } 


464 


NATHAN BURKE 


honestly; “I cringed whenever I thought of that. But 
now it’s all out, why, I’ve just got to stand it, that’s all. If 
one or two people like you and Jack Vardaman and — and — 
if you believe in me, why, it’s not so hard. And if I find 
Nance once more, I’m going to keep on doing what I can for 
her, even if no respectable woman ever speaks to me. again. 
It’s a queer kind of false position I’m in — but I guess I’m 
not the first man — I can stand it.” 

The advance of the American army, all this while, pro¬ 
ceeded surely, it may be, but by far too slowly to suit Burke’s 
general, who would have been “thundering at the gates of 
Mexico,” to quote from his own flaming periods, long before 
this, had he been in charge of the expedition. It is only just 
to say that Quitman’s own troops were in admirable condi¬ 
tion, for he looked after them with a parental zeal, and being 
almost all young, hardy, adventurous fellows might indeed 
have been pushed forward in a much more brisk and brill¬ 
iant manner. But the commander-in-chief seemed singu¬ 
larly blind to their merits, or else, as Burke shrewdly sus¬ 
pected, that very daredevil temper they shared with their 
leader appeared to Scott desirable anywhere except in the 
advance of his army. At any rate he kept us in our position 
towards the rear of the line of march with a tenacity of pur¬ 
pose which Quitman alternately set down to personal dislike or 
distrust, to lack of military skill, to the jealousy of some one 
brother general, to an infamous cabal among all of them, — 
nothing was too far-fetched for him; if it was a little comic, 
it was also a little distressing to behold this high and hasty 
spirit so fretted by restraint. Fortunately his military 
household furnished a handy and economical safety-valve, 
or nobody knows where the general’s resentment might have 
carried him. 

“You may talk as you please, Burke,” he would storm at 
his aide — who sat by in entire silence — “you may talk as 
much as you please, nothing will ever persuade me that there 
isn’t something going on under the surface. It’s too deliber¬ 
ate, it’s too persistent, this keeping me in the background. 
Somebody’s got at the general and misrepresented us. 
Heavens! When I think that he may entertain the idea, 
he may actually have been brought to believe that my. 


HITHERTO UNPRINTED HISTORY 


465 


splendid South Carolinians, descended from Revolutionary- 
sires, soldiers from their very cradles, sir, with a God-given 
instinct for fighting, ready to pour out their blood to the last 
drop for their country —” 

“And the Pennsylvania and New York regiments, too, 
General—” # 

‘'Yes, yes, of course — far be it from me to discriminate 
among my gallant fellows!” said Quitman, hastily; and, 
indeed, I am sure he had no such intention, but “my brave 
Second Pennsylvanians” would have been something of a 
mouthful even for him; “but when I think that maybe 
Scott believes they can’t be trusted in the field, I tell you, it 
makes my blood boil. Yet why doesn’t he give me a post of 
honor, if not from some such feeling ? It’s a piece of unjustifi¬ 
able tyranny. Are Pillow’s men any better than mine? 
Are Worth’s? I’m willing to concede they may be better 
commanders, though they’ve neither one done one single 
iota more than I towards the success of our arms throughout 
the war — but let that pass. Only why give them all the 
opportunities? Why not let me have a chance?” 

And so on, and so on. This was the burden of the general’s 
talk from Puebla across the mountains, from the hacienda 
of the Beautiful View to Chaleo, which we reached somewhere 
about the middle of the month, as I recollect; during the 
succeeding movement to San Augustin — a frightful march, 
across interminable fields of broken lava rocks like the bottom 
of an old volcano, which I have since been told it really was 
— his spirits began to raise a little. We were now within 
ten miles of the capital, the divisions were so separated that 
for the moment nobody could strictly be said to be in ad¬ 
vance, the mighty fortifications of El Penon — which, as 
it turned out, however, were never attacked — were in full 
sight, the plains between us and the city were alive with 
Mexican horse and foot, there was hourly expectation of a big 
engagement, and it was apparent that the whole strength 
of the army must be called out. 

In spite of this promising beginning, will it be believed that 
our unfortunate division commander was doomed to another 
disappointment? All day (the 19th) from where we were 
camped in the little town of San Augustin and in the corn¬ 
fields round about, we cculd hear the artillery on our right 
2h 


466 


NATHAN BURKE 


where (as we understood) Worth was attacking the first of 
the fortifications on the Acapulco road; there we lay in 
reserve and listened to it! At this place the Mexicans had 
posted a battery of over twenty guns, we were told; they 
were in great force under General Valencia; Santa Anna 
himself was not far away at San Angel where they had forti¬ 
fied a convent. The fire grew heavier towards evening; 
our New York and Carolina regiments under Shields were at 
last ordered forward; night closed in with a drenching cold 
rain; and a rumor reached us that the position was to be 
stormed at daybreak. It was the bloody battle of Con¬ 
treras that we were witnessing, although none of us knew it, 
while Burke’s general fumed in inaction at headquarters, 
and his aide rode hither and thither with messages. 

True enough, the cannon opened again very viciously at 
dawn; and in about an hour or so, to the great relief and 
delight of everybody, although it augured not too well for 
the progress of the battle, there came an order for the rest 
of the division to advance. It was Mr. James Sharpless 
who brought it, mounted on a stray artillery horse, without 
any saddle, himself picturesquely wreathed in mud, a bloody 
bandage on one wrist, his gaunt face grinning out from under 
an infantryman’s fatigue-cap. 

“Good Lord, where have you been?” said Burke, aghast 
at this apparition. The last he had seen of Jim had been 
early the day before when in company with another enter¬ 
prising newspaper correspondent, he was starting to climb 
the belfry of San Augustin church for a more extended view 
of the field of battle. “I thought you were safe in bed, 
or somewhere all this while!” 

“It’s all right — give me some of that coffee!” said Jim, 
dismounting stiffly. “It’s all right — I volunteered with 
General Shields when I saw ’em starting for the front yes¬ 
terday afternoon. That is to say, I just went along — he 
said I could. I was carrying orders all yesterday evening 

— I believe I came in pretty handy. D’ye know a man 
named Lee — he’s in the Engineers, Captain Robert Lee 

— d’ye know he and I are the only men that got through to 
headquarters last night? I don’t know how many were sent 

— ever so many. Let me tell you what the general did — 
General Shields, I mean — he spread us all out this morning 


HITHERTO UNPRINTED HISTORY 


467 


— we’ve been in that stony place they call the Pedregal, 
you know — he spread us all out all over, and we built fires, 
and kicked up a big racket as if there were five times as 
many of us, so as to give the Mexicans a good scare, while 
Smith got up with his fellows and took ’em in the flank 
and rear! Oh, I’ll bet we’ve got ’em doubled up by this 
time, Nat, I’ll bet we’ve doubled ’em up!” He was tre¬ 
mendously excited, like a boy, crowing, jubilant. 

He was right, it presently appeared; we had doubled ’em 
up; already had that business been completed, and the 
enemy were scurrying from behind their works, before the 
reenforcements could reach our troops. And, alack, instead 
of being allowed to press on and take part in the movement 
on Cherubusco, the next object of attack, we were per¬ 
emptorily ordered to return to our inglorious duty of stand¬ 
ing guard over the stores and wounded. “By-by! I’m 
off!” said Sharpless, when he heard this news; and in spite 
of remonstrances, sped incontinently away. For once our 
young officers — and old ones, too — envied him his irre¬ 
sponsibility. “Damn your reserves!” old Colonel Morgan 
had said on receiving word from General Pillow that such 
was to be his portion, and we echoed him from the bottom 
of our hearts. Quitman’s staff rode back in glum silence 
behind their glum general. “This proves that General 
Scott’s animus is directed solely against me — against me 
and nobody else, Burke,” he said gloomily; “I intend to 
have an understanding — an explanation. Face to face — 
this is no time for formalities or written evasions! — ” some¬ 
thing which his secretary was rather glad to hear, remember¬ 
ing the general’s prowess as a letter-writer. 

All to no purpose were these ferocious statements, how¬ 
ever. Quitman returned from army headquarters (which 
were also established at San Augustin, not far from our own) 
defeated, incoherent with anger and impatience; and at this 
opportune moment a petition came in to him from the officers 
of our corps of Marines, pathetically representing that they 
had left their regular line of service to join our division of 
the land forces, and felt themselves entitled to some part in 
the action! 

“Good G—d, what do they want me to do?” yelled out 
Burke’s general, flinging the document on the table in a 


468 


NATHAN BURKE 


fury; “I’m not allowed to move, myself! WJre all dum¬ 
mies, figureheads, non-combatants, jumping-jacks — that’s 
it, jumping-jacks, and you can tell ’em that from me, Wat¬ 
son,” he added to the astonished colonel of Marines who had 
brought the request; “tell ’em we’re not to budge till the 
commander-in-chief pulls the wires. We’re to sit here, and 
listen while our fellows are being killed, being butchered, 
by G—d, by a horde of slavish Mexicans, and we can’t raise 
a hand to help ’em!” Tears of rage and mortification 
stood in the honest gentleman’s eyes; he stormed about the 
room, pouring out his grievance. “I commanded myself, 
Burke, I was temperate. I said to the general that his orders 
detailing me to guard this place had cast a gloom over my 
division. He said my language was unmilitary! Language 
was unmilitary — damnation! Was that an answer?” 

“Yes, but he said more than that, didn’t he. General?” 
suggested the aide, feeling, notwithstanding his own dis¬ 
appointment, a strong desire to laugh. 

“Oh, rest easy, he said enough and more than enough! 
I told him flat that we had been kept in the rear since Vera 
Cruz, or, at least, never in any position where we could get 
any credit. Then he got very much excited and said he 
meant always to place his strongest divisions in front, no 
matter who commanded them! That shows, Burke, that 
shows it was just as I suspected; he hadn’t any confidence 
in us — in me,” said Quitman, who had, as I have said, 
suspected half a dozen other things besides. “I was per¬ 
fectly calm — as calm as I am now, talking to you. I told 
him that there were others besides himself who prized their 
own reputations and characters, and that I was one of them; 
that his orders allowed me and my men no chance for dis¬ 
tinction, and that he would have to pardon my determina¬ 
tion not to sit down supinely under such neglect i” 

Burke, for all his dislike, felt a twinge of sympathy for 
General Scott, although, indeed, it was abundantly evident 
that nobody could be better able to get along without sym¬ 
pathy than that gentleman. So his orders were obeyed, 
he probably cared very little how they were received; and 
brushed General Quitman, or any other brave and high- 
spirited man out of his way as indifferently as he would have 
a fly. The quality may not be particularly agreeable in a 


HITHERTO UNPRINTED HISTORY 


469 

man, but even Burke must acknowledge that it was invalu¬ 
able in a commander. 

We stayed where we were; the fighting rolled off to the 
north where they said the enemy were making a last des¬ 
perate stand at Cherubusco. It was three or four miles 
away, completely out of sight, but the cannonading inces¬ 
sant and much louder than the day before; they said that, 
excepting ourselves, the entire forces of both sides must be 
engaged. The streets had become one huge hospital; all 
day the sad procession of wounded filed through — with 
enough of “my gallant” New Yorkers and Carolinians, 
one would have thought, to have satisfied our general that 
his command had not been overlooked. Shields’s brigade 
had behaved with the greatest resolution, and suffered se¬ 
verely both in the Contreras engagement and afterwards. 
In the late afternoon reports began to come back of astound¬ 
ing successes for our army — the Mexicans were cut to pieces 
— our troops were at the city gates — we had made a clean 
sweep of all the defences — we had taken acres of cannon, 
tons of ammunition, scores of flags, prisoners by the hun¬ 
dreds — Santa Anna himself was in our hands — no, Santa 
Anna was killed — no, he was running away, wooden leg 
and all, with the remaining few Mexicans whom we had not 
slaughtered — Hurrah! 

Out of all this wild talk emerged the certainty of a great 
victory — of more than one victory, in fact, for on that day 
our troops fought five successive engagements, at different 
points, quite separate one from another and each one an 
attack on strong entrenchments against an enemy in every 
case outnumbering us, sometimes by as many as three to one. 
The prisoners and prizes, as we presently found out, were 
hardly exaggerated; and in one instance, at least, it was 
true that the Mexicans were driven back and pursued up to 
the very defences at their city gates, Captain Kearney at 
the head of his company of dragoons (not hearing or not 
choosing to hear the recall) having charged them at full 
speed up to the outworks of the Ninos Perdidos, where this 
gallant officer was severely wounded. It has repeatedly 
been stated since, and Burke heard it at the time from many 
who had taken an active part and were better able to judge 
than he, that the battles of the 19th and 20th of August 


470 


NATHAN BURKE 


left the enemy temporarily so shattered and demoralized, 
we could have entered and taken the city the evening of 
that second day almost without further opposition — cer¬ 
tainly a great saving of time and bloodshed. But lo, at 
this supreme moment, General Scott, in the face of Taylor’s 
experience at Monterey, consented to Santa Anna’s pro¬ 
posals for an armistice! I do not feel myself in a position 
to criticise this action; he doubtless had his reasons for 
trusting to Mexican promises, listening to Mexican peace- 
talk, and believing Mexican representations, all of which 
had been amply demonstrated to be perfectly unreliable 
time and again. But what man on earth knew as much 
as General Scott? Or what man on earth could advise 
him? 

Captain Burke — who, like a great many others at the 
time, had only a very confused idea of what was happening 
outside of his own immediate observation — returning to 
quarters late and weary that night, encountered there, 
much to his peace of mind, his friend Sharpless, for whom he 
had felt considerable anxiety during the day. Jim looked 
worn out, haggard, and begrimed; but he was writing 
vigorously with the head of a keg between his knees for a 
desk, and by the light of an evil-smelling Mexican lamp- 
wick classically afloat in a broken saucer of oil. He started 
up when the other entered, and almost before they could 
exchange a greeting, began with a grave face: — 

“Nat, you haven’t heard, have you? No, of course you 
couldn’t have heard — nobody would have told you, nobody 
knows but me — I was just going out to hunt you up. You 
knew about the prisoners — the ones they took at San 
Pablo — at the church?” 

“San Pablo? The church?” said Nathan, startled by his 
manner; “at Cherubusco, do you mean? They always 
fortify the churches everywhere. Was that where the 
fighting was? I heard they took fifteen hundred —” 

“No, no, I don’t mean them — I don’t mean the Mexican 
prisoners — I mean at the church — of course you don’t 
know — we only took twenty-five or thirty of them, all 
Americans — the rest were all shot — didn’t you know—” 

“Oh, you mean those fellows they call the Brigade of Saint 
Patrick? Yes, I knew about that,” Burke said, wondering 


HITHERTO UNPRINTED HISTORY 


471 


at the other’s excitement; “well, what of it? What’s the 
matter?” 

Jim interrupted. “Nathan,” he said, unconsciously 
lowering his voice, “George Ducey was among them! I saw 
him. They’ve got ’em all in irons. They say they’ll all be 
hanged for deserting, every man!” 


CHAPTER XI 

The Brigade of Saint Patrick 

It would be hard to describe what Burke felt and thought, 
whether surprise or horror, or a mere general rebellion of the 
senses at this piece of news. George a deserter was easy 
enough to figure — he was familiar with that conception — 
but George being hanged for it! The tragedy was out of 
all proportion — monstrous, incredible. The thing that in 
any other case would have seemed to Nat of all men’s acts 
the most contemptible, as performed by George became 
natural and inevitable; the punishment he would have con¬ 
sidered not one whit too stern took on an aspect of hideous 
injustice. Hang the deserters? Why, certainly — but not 
George. George was different; nobody that knew George 
would either blame him for running away — what could you 
expect? — or want to hang him for doing it. Hang that 
poor bundle of folly and feebleness? Surely the awful laws 
of war were not made for such as he. The futility of these 
objections was apparent to Burke even while they hurried 
through his mind; none the less, his whole being rose up in 
protest. 

“I saw him. There can’t be any doubt about it,” said 
Jim, misreading the other’s silence. “Are you surprised? 
Why, everybody thought he’d deserted — you thought he 
might have, yourself.” 

“I know — but what’s he doing here?” Burke said in a 
kind of maze; “George wouldn’t fight — why, George 
couldn’t fight!” His voice rose almost irritably. “Any¬ 
body that knows George — it’s impossible, I tell you. If 
there was any fight in him, why didn’t he stay on his own 
side? How’d he get here t They can’t hang him — it’s— 
why, it’s ridiculous!” 

“A deserter’s a deserter, you can’t get around that,” said 
472 


THE BRIGADE OF SAINT PATRICK 473 


Sharpless; “as to fighting, he wasn’t, I believe — but I 
don’t know that that’s got anything to do with it.” 

“He wasn’t with them of his own free will — he couldn’t 
have joined ’em voluntarily—” said Nathan, weakly. 

“He must have run away of his own free will — you can’t 
imagine anybody kidnapping him,” Jim retorted — and 
neither one thought of smiling at.this grotesque suggestion; 
the moment was too serious. “That’ll all come out at the 
trial, anyhow. They won’t turn the wretches off without a 
trial.” 

“How many of them are there?” asked Nathan, with 
aroused interest. 

“ I don’t know — about thirty, I think. There were more 
than that to begin with, somebody told me, about a hundred. 
They were in two regular companies with uniforms and good 
arms — better than the Mexicans themselves — and they 
really did call them that — the Brigade of Saint Patrick, 
you know. Riley was in command of ’em — they called 
him Major Riley. I saw him. I saw ’em all, and they didn’t 
look like such a hard lot, no worse than the rest of us, after 
marching and living so long in the open — roughing it the 
way we have. They were all of ’em killed but these few — 
shot in the San Pablo fight. I was talking to a fellow in the 
3d, he said they fought like fiends — he said the Mexicans 
put up a white flag, and these fellows pulled it down three 
times.” 

“You didn’t see any of that yourself, though?” 

“No, no. I was just following along behind our men, 
and — and looking on, you know,” said Jim. He went on 
talking a little brokenly, evidently trying to collect and 
arrange his memories. “When I left you this morning I 
thought I’d hunt up General Shields again. I understood 
he was moving over towards Cherubusco; it seems to be a 
sort of suburban-residence place like this, a handsome little 
town, you know, where the Mexican grandees go in summer 
time. Somebody told me it was between four and five miles 
straight east from Contreras. I started off in that general 
direction; after a while there began to be firing. I left the 
road, thinking I’d take a short cut across some maguey 
plantations, where I could see the artillery and horses had 
gone before, and then I got all mixed up, and the firing by 


474 


NATHAN BURKE 


that time was pretty general, in every direction. I hadn't 
any idea who Fd run into next, Mexicans or our fellows, so 
I went on more cautiously, and presently struck the Coyacan 
road and then, praise the Lord, I knew where I was because 
I remembered it from yesterday!" 

After this, it appeared, he had fallen in with a body of our 
troops on the way to reenforce Worth at San Antonio; and 
having been supplied with a gun and ammunition (he was 
totally unarmed!) at the instance of some officer whom he 
knew, joined them — or followed them, as he said — in the 
attack on that point, and on the bridge-head at the Rio 
Cherubusco where there was a very hot struggle lasting an 
hour or more. 

“I think it was about two o'clock this afternoon when it 
began," he said. “ We were in sight of the town, but not near 
enough to know what was going on there. Where we were 
the enemy gave away all at once — just like that — it seemed 
as if you could feel them breaking. All our men knew it, 
and began to run forward, hurrahing. It must have been 
about the same time, or only a few minutes later that San 
Pablo surrendered; we saw the white flag run up, and then, 
in a second or two, our own. The fighting went on some 
time longer on the other side of the town — the north side, 
that is, where Shields was, you know." 

He made his way into the town, amongst many dreadful 
sights and sounds, and after some devious adventures reached 
the plaza, and found two companies of the 3d Infantry in pos¬ 
session of the church. They had already converted it into a 
hospital and prison; our troops were coming in on all sides; 
the battle was over; he could not tell how long it had taken, 
perhaps three hours. Our losses had been very heavy — 
nothing like the Mexicans, though! — but he couldn’t get 
any reliable information; everybody was too exhausted or 
too excited. A private told him that Lieutenant Alexander 
was the first man over the fortifications, and pointed out 
the breach where they had entered. There was a high wall 
of adobe bricks surrounding the church where the enemy 
had planted their batteries, and on the flat roof, this man said, 
they posted their sharp-shooters who had been very active 
in picking off our men. “The fellow went on to say that 
they were all Americans and shot better than the Mexi- 


THE BRIGADE OF SAINT PATRICK 475 

cans— ‘They knocked over every officer they could see,’ 
he said, cursing; ‘but we’ve got ’em now. They’ll swing 
for it. Want to see ’em, mister?’ 

‘I didn’t know what he meant,” Jim continued. “I 
knew they didn’t hang prisoners of war, and thought the man 
must be a little bit cracked. But just then George Kendall 
— the New Orleans Picayune man, you know, he’s been with 
Worth since the fighting commenced — came along asking 
where the Saint Patrick’s Brigade prisoners were, and then 
I understood. The soldier said he’d show us. Kendall 
made some joke about looking for some missing friends of 
ours! They had them separated from the others in a room 
which was the sacristy, I believe. It was rather dark in 
there; they were standing up, lying down, sitting around on 
the benches, making themselves as comfortable as they could 
in their manacles, not at all restive under inspection, rather 
stolid. It was only a few hours after the fight — maybe they 
didn’t realize their position yet; or maybe they knew it 
was all up and didn’t care. You can’t help wondering what 
a man like that thinks of himself, anyway — or if he thinks 
at all. They say, you know, that the Mexicans bribed them 
with promises of money and an officer’s rank; everybody 
was to be a colonel or a general, I suppose. There’s some¬ 
thing sordid and pathetic and ridiculous in that, somehow. 
And here they all were, no better than they would have been 
in their own army — deserters with the rope around their 
necks, and the scorn of every honest man on both sides! —” 

“Well, you saw George?” interrupted Burke, a little im¬ 
patiently. 

“Not right away — we didn’t go in at first, you know. 
Then Kendall asked the corporal in charge if we could talk 
to the prisoners; the man said yes, he guessed so, if we wanted 
to, and looked at us a little curiously. I suppose he won¬ 
dered how anybody could care to have anything to do with 
them except in the way of duty. Yet our men seem always 
to be very kind to the Mexican prisoners, I’ve noticed, crack 
jokes and share tobacco and so on; nobody came near these 
fellows, except one of the surgeons to bandage up some 
of them that were wounded. I felt a kind of diffidence about 
talking to them — I didn’t know what to say — if it hadn’t 
been for Kendall, I might not have gone in. But I followed 


476 


NATHAN BURKE 


him. He went up to one and asked if he was Riley? The 
man said no, and pointed out Riley sitting in a corner talk¬ 
ing to another that had his head between his hands. ‘Are 
you Riley?’ Kendall said to the first. He looked up, and 
answered civilly, ‘Yes, sir.’ And then there was a kind 
of silence, and even Kendall seemed stuck for something to 
say next. The other man raised his head, and, Nathan, it 
was George Ducey! 

“He stared; I stared. I’m not certain now whether he 
knew me. I was just on the edge of shouting out his name, 
when I remembered his mother and the family and stopped 
myself. But I must have made some kind of noise, because 
Kendall turned around and said, ‘What’s that?’ I 
said, ‘Nothing, that man looks like somebody I know, 
that’s all.’ Riley said, ‘Well, if you should happen to know 
anybody here, sir, I hope you’ll remember we need all the 
friends we’ve got?’ This he said in not at all a cring¬ 
ing way, however; he was quite straightforward and matter 
of fact. Then George spoke — not to me, nor to anybody 
in particular — ‘ I wish they’d take these things off my 
hands — they hurt me, oh, they hurt me!’ and he began 
to cry. He was as dirty and unkempt as everybody else, 
and he cried — the tears ran down into his dirty half-grown 
beard — Lord! Riley tried to comfort him; he seems to 
be fond of George. The others were indifferent. I got out 
of the place as quick as I could — I couldn’t stand it.” 

One might have fancied that the armistice was arranged 
solely for the purpose of affording time for the trial of this 
handful of sinners; for the proceedings covered nearly the 
whole of the two or three weeks during which we lay idle 
before Mexico City, and created a deal of stir in the camp — 
much more than the peace negotiations also going forward, 
which ultimately fell through, and which everybody believed 
would fall through, from the beginning. The case of the 
deserters touched the rank and file more nearly, and was 
of far more vital interest than any sort of cloudy diplomatic 
discussions; and the verdict when it was announced, ruthless 
as it must sound to civilian ears, probably made a very deep 
and salutary impression on the army at large. 

The companions of Saint Patrick were tried by a general 


THE BRIGADE OF SAINT PATRICK 477 


court-martial presided over by Colonel Riley of the 2d In¬ 
fantry, to which regiment a number of them had belonged; 
and two-thirds of the court concurring in every several case, 
they were all pronounced guilty and sentenced to hang by 
the neck until they were dead, dead, dead — an awful hearing 
for spectators as well as accused. The condemned men — 
with the single exception of George Ducey — were all from the 
regular army, and well known in their ancient regiments; 
and Captain Burke, a little to his surprise, found himself 
not alone in the various efforts he made during all this while 
to enlist the clemency of the court on George’s behalf. There 
was not one of these wretches so abandoned but that one 
friend at least came and put in a good word for him! I 
do not say that this discovery moved Burke to any pity 
or sympathy for the traitors themselves; each one repre¬ 
sented, doubtless, the worst, the most brutal and degraded 
elements of his class; yet even he must have some one good 
quality, some poor grace recognized and remembered kindly 
by his mates. Burke thought he saw in this a thing, small 
indeed, but withal touching, and creditable to humanity. 
In that gathering everybody certainly was in need of friends, 
as their leader had remarked; but Nathan had considerable 
difficulty in winning any one over to his own views about 
George. General Quitman received the story in silence with 
a sombre face, at length informing the captain coldly that he 
was exceedingly sorry to be of no assistance, but since he 
had never known Lieutenant Ducey, he could not possibly 
speak for him; that he was willing to believe the young man 
was of weak character, easily influenced, and led astray by 
bad company. “But,” he added with that impressive 
formality which he always displayed towards any questions 
of military law, custom, or precedent whatever, “but you 
will perhaps allow me to say, Captain Burke, that these con¬ 
siderations do not seem to me sufficiently weighty to warrant 
a reversal or commutation of the sentence.” Which was 
entirely true, or, at least, unanswerable. Admitting that 
George was a harmless fool, that was hardly a reason why 
he should not be punished for the crime he had knowingly 
committed; Burke’s private and unshakable conviction was 
that such a punishment would be a sad miscarriage of justice 
— but how was he to make anybody else think so? He 


478 


NATHAN BURKE 


wondered if ever any man before was put to such a 
job. 

He went to see George. The deserters were removed to 
the convent of San Angel as soon as practicable, and de¬ 
cently lodged there during their trial. Some of our sick and 
wounded were accommodated in the cells and long, cool 
corridors whence almost all the monks had fled in dire panic 
on the American approach. It was a pretty spot, very green 
and flowery now during the rainy season, with a fountain in 
the patio in the midst of the cloisters, and some caged paro¬ 
quets and other bright birds whom our convalescents tended 
zealously. From the roofs and balconies — the building 
standing high with a wide outlook — one might see the city 
twinkling in the distance, plains populated with tents, our 
flag breaking into ripples overhead; and at night and morn¬ 
ing the familiar bugles declaimed cheerily from point to 
point. The world must look tragically pleasant to the pris¬ 
oners these days, Burke thought, as he sought their quarters. 

George was sick, it seemed; he was lying full-length on a 
bench, his eyes looking rather wildly out of his pallid face, 
and another man was fanning him with a sombrero which 
was all decorated with silver bullion cords and tassels, and 
with a handsomely embroidered letter “R” on either side 
of the crown in the Mexican fashion. The Samaritan thus 
employed — who had as villanous a face as ever I beheld 
— was in fact the notorious Riley, leader of the brigade, — 
Major, as he called himself, — and he got up and saluted when 
Burke came in with the turnkey. 

“He’s got a little fever, I think,” he explained. And added 
with a sidelong glance, “Friend o’ Ducey’s, sir?” 

George raised his head, and looked at his old captain, and 
recognized him with hardly a sign of surprise or any other 
emotion, for that matter. “Ah, Burke, how d’ye do?” he 
said in a ghastly voice, and sank back again. Nathan 
stammered out some kind of greeting, and sat down by him. 
Nobody offered to shake hands. The rest of the prisoners 
were dispersed about the room, no longer wearing shackles; 
a couple played cards, quite half a dozen were smoking. 
They looked at the visitor casually, knowing that he was not in¬ 
terested in any of them. Of this entire company Burke was 
the only honest man; and the only one who might expect to 


THE BRIGADE OF SAINT PATRICK 479 


live out the week: yet he was — to j udge by appearances—infi¬ 
nitely the most ill at ease! I suppose there is a limit to every 
man’s capacity for sensation, and, having reached it, he can¬ 
not be made any more frightened, or angrier, or sadder, or 
worked to any greater pitch of feeling whatever. Nothing 
else, it seemed to Burke, could account for a calm which 
would have been called heroic under any other circum¬ 
stances. 1 

“This is a bad business, George,” he said at last; and the 
other only giving a kind of groan, he went on, “I’ve been 
talking to some of the officers that were on the court, you 
know, but they — they don’t seem to be able to do anything 
individually, so I’m going to see General Scott.” 

George sat up. “You tell him it’s all a lie, Nathan,” he 
said shrilly. “I never deserted — I wouldn’t desert. I 
wasn’t fighting — I never raised my hand — I never fired a 
shot — you can ask anybody here. I’ve — I’ve been a 
prisoner right along. They — they made me do it. I 
didn’t want to go with ’em — I tried to get away from ’em — 
1 — 1 —” 

“All right, I’ll tell him,” said Burke, cutting short this 
incoherent harangue as gently as he could. “Only he’ll 
want to know more, George. He’ll want to know why you 
ran away in the first place — before Monterey, remember?” 

“I didn’t run away,” George screamed out, trembling; “I 
never ran away, Burke. Whoever says I ran away is telling 
a lie. Who said I ran away? Everybody is always telling 
lies about me. I’m all alone — I haven’t any friends—I 
didn’t run away, I tell you!” His chin quivered; his face 
knotted up like a child’s; the tears ran down. “Oh, won’t 
somebody please listen to me? I didn’t desert — I’m not a 
deserter! I just — I just—” 

“He just kinder straggled off, didn’t ye, George?” said 
Riley, interrupting (to Burke’s amazement) in an anxious 
voice, and not at all satirically. “He just dropped outer 
the ranks, like men do, ye know,” he went on addressing 
Burke; “and first thing he knew, he was lost and wandering 

1 I was told afterwards by eye-witnesses that the condemned men 
met their death in every case with the best possible composure and 
decency of bearing. — N. Burke. 



480 


NATHAN BURKE 


'round in the chap’ral miles from anywhere. That’s where 
we found him — we come along and found him — ain’t 
that the way it was, George? So we made him come along 
with us, just like he says —” 

“ And tell him I didn’t fight — you know I didn’t fight, tell 
him that!” George cried. He clutched at Riley’s coat with 
a gesture of frenzied appeal. “Tell him I didn’t fight — the 
men made me fight — I never raised my hand —” 

“To be sure you didn’t,” said Riley, “you keep quiet, 
George, let me do the talking. He never fit a lick, sir. We 
just kept him along with us, to do the cooking and clean up 
the camp—” 

“That’s it — that’s it — I cooked, and I washed their 
shirts, didn’t I? Tell the general that was all I did — every 
single thing. You’ll tell him that, won’t you, Nat? Don’t 
you think that’ll make a — a difference? They wouldn’t 
hang a man for that, would they? I didn’t do anything, I 
tell you. I — why, I was always wanting to go back to our 
army — wasn’t I, Riley? — and they wouldn’t let me —” 

“Just you let me tell the cap.,” Riley said soothingly. 
“Fll tell him. You’re sick, you know. You’d better not 
talk any more.” And it is the barest justice to say that Mr. 
Riley’s tale which he thereupon delivered with many — but 
not too many — asseverations of its truth was admirably 
conceived, and rendered in a style calculated to gain credit 
and sympathy from any audience unacquainted with its 
hero or the narrator himself. It was an elaborated version 
of what he had already told Burke; George had never had 
any intention of deserting; he had not run away, he had got 
separated from the regiment in the confusion of the march, 
to his own great alarm and distress. It was after nightfall; 
he had wandered about helplessly, not daring to appeal to 
the natives for fear of being murdered, and suffering greatly 
from hunger and thirst, for the better part of the following 
two days. In these circumstances Riley’s party had 
providentially — or not, as you choose to look at it — 
stumbled upon him; he had been a prisoner of theirs, prac¬ 
tically, ever since, although consistently refusing to act 
against his countrymen — a part of the story which Burke 
could very well believe. In fact, the renegade chief, with a 
captivating ingenuousness, acknowledged that this recruit 


THE BRIGADE OF SAINT PATRICK 


481 


was no soldier; adding that at the trial George’s terror and 
bewilderment had been such that he was unable to give a 
coherent statement of these events. 

I am sure that part of all this was true; but how much, or 
how distorted, or what George really did do, or in what way 
he fell in with the Brigade of Saint Patrick, nobody will ever 
know; afterwards, when left to himself, he either entered a 
general denial, or told half a dozen different and contradic¬ 
tory stories. I am not certain whether, even in the very act 
of deserting, he had any conception of the enormity of his 
offence; a man who is honest to nobody cannot, in nature, 
be honest with himself, and the Lord who made him alone 
knows under what guise George’s actions appeared before 
his own eyes. At the time it would have been manifestly 
disastrous to let him do his own lying; but I have not yet 
ceased to wonder at Riley’s benevolent intervention. What 
sentiment was it of affection or pity, strangely enough 
lodged in that ruffianly breast that moved Riley to plead for 
him? The fellow, blackguard as he was, undoubtedly pos¬ 
sessed both force and intelligence — of a certain order; and 
I can only suppose his fondness for George — who requited 
it with a perfect indifference and ingratitude — to have been 
one of those unaccountable fancies we sometimes see of the 
strong for the weak. 

It now became Burke’s duty to carry the history to Gen¬ 
eral Scott; and if anyone imagines that this errand was 
agreeable to the captain, let him disabuse himself of that 
idea. The commander-in-chief received him in his usual 
stately manner, and heard him through with patience. 

“Are you aware, Captain Burke,” he said at the end, 
“that I have here —” and he tapped a great heap of papers 
lying before him on the table — “I have here an application 
of the same nature from every one of these men? I have 
looked into every case with the utmost minuteness, for —” 
said the general, sonorously, “clemency and humanity, para¬ 
doxical as it may seem, I hold to be the first of a soldier’s 
duties. I have commuted no less than eight of the sentences, 
wherever there was the least excuse for it. Now you come 
with your plea. As I understand it, this young man says he 
strayed away somehow or other, and was picked up some¬ 
how or other by Riley’s brigade, who thereafter kept him, 

2i 


482 


NATHAN BURKE 


somehow or other, and more or less against his will. Without 
meaning to doubt you at all, Captain, that seems to me a very 
fishy story. For one thing, men of that caliber don’t burden 
themselves with a useless prisoner, in general. They either 
shoot him down or let him go. And on the other hand, he 
doesn’t appear to have made a real effort to escape, as 
almost any man would in such a position. How was that? ” 

“He would be incapable of it, I think,” said Burke ; “he’s 
not strong physically or — or mentally. He couldn’t invent 
any plan of escape, and force was out of the question.” 

“You mean to say he isn’t entirely responsible?” 

“No, not that exactly. But — but he’s only a boy, in 
fact.” 

“Only a boy?” echoed the chief, and glanced through his 
papers; “according to this he’s twenty-five years old. Is 
that a mistake?” 

“No, that’s correct. But he’s not very mature in some 
respects.” 

“When I was twenty-five, I was a man , Captain Burke,” 
said General Scott, impressively; “and a man, I may add 
without vanity, who had already been of some service to his 
country.” 

“General,” said Burke, “you were Winfield Scott.” A 
remark which, I think, was by no means ill-placed. 

If you will turn to the records of the time, you will find 
that, for one reason or another, nine of the deserters were 
released from the death penalty, among them being our 
friend Riley, who, it appeared, had deserted before the begin¬ 
ning of the war, and although he most richly deserved it, 
could not, according to Scott’s ruling, legally be held. In¬ 
stead, he was sentenced, like some of the others, I believe, to 
be whipped, and branded in the hand, following the sav¬ 
age military code of our day. George Ducey escaped these 
punishments, and Captain Burke moved him at once to 
other quarters at San Augustin where he remained in safety 
and quiet until the fall of the city. The rest duly paid their 
score; and I am told that the tree — at a cross-roads some¬ 
where between San Angel and the town of Tacubaya — where 
the Irish brigade were hanged is still shown to tourists in 
Mexico. 


CHAPTER XII 


The Street of the Good Death 

Hostilities being resumed at the end of a fortnight or 
so — during which the enemy repeatedly and shamelessly 
violated the terms of the armistice and their own most 
solemn engagements — the city of Mexico at length sur¬ 
rendered after two days of determined fighting on both sides, 
September 13, 1847 — an event which virtually closed this 
war. In the final hot and bloody actions Quitman’s division 
bore a handsome part, the general conducting himself per¬ 
sonally with the most splendid gallantry, charging the bat¬ 
teries before and at the Belem Gate at the head of his men, 
and carrying them under a murderous fire; and successfully 
holding this advanced and perilous position actually within 
the city until the surrender several hours later. It is true 
that Burke’s general was afterwards mildly reprimanded by 
the commander-in-chief for attacking this point at all, 
having been directed to move against the other gate (the 
San Cosme) which, being commanded by the fortress, 1 had 
been left by the enemy practically undefended, and might 
have been taken with far less risk and loss. General Scott, 
however, let it be plainly seen that in his heart of hearts he 
did not in the least blame his subordinate; who could expect 
a man like Quitman to remember instructions in a moment 
of victorious excitement? Certainly his aide had no business 
to make comments, for that staid and strong-minded young 
person forgot all about the instructions, too! 

The war was over; the Mexican generals fled; the Mexican 
army scattered to the four winds; the Mexican government — 
I was going to say fell into chaos, but as a matter of fact it 
could scarcely become any more chaotic than it had already 
been for years. And owing in part to this deplorable condi¬ 
tion, the peace negotiations conducted by Mr. Trist, a sort 

1 Chapultepec. 

483 


484 


NATHAN BURKE 


of unofficial envoy of President Polk’s, by General Scott, by 
pretty nearly anybody and everybody who chose to take a 
hand, were prolonged and intricate to a degree. While 
they went on — nothing was settled until the following 
spring — the United States Army lived at pleasant quarters 
in and about the city, our division occupying a big Domini¬ 
can Convent, and the buildings of the Military College on a 
street called the Estampa Jesus, leading to one of the gates. 
General Quitman, having been made military governor (an 
appointment suitable to his rank, and one which gave him, I 
believe, great gratification), was housed with his official 
family in the Palacio Nacional, this being the first and only 
time in his life when Burke enjoyed a residence of so mag¬ 
nificent a title. Our officers, indeed, soon discovered that its 
magnificence was a matter solely of the title and nothing 
else; the National Palace lacked the comforts one would 
have found in the simplest of our homes. It was a draughty 
old stone barn, scantily supplied with tawdry old cotton vel¬ 
vet upholsterings and hangings, with a huge melancholy 
dirty courtyard in the middle of it, vast yawning doors and 
windows through which the chill winds roamed unhindered, 
Brobdingnagian ceilings and Lilliputian stoves. To makeup 
for these drawbacks, our palace looked upon the open square 
of the Zocalo, very brilliant and lively in the mornings, with 
a pretty market where they sold flowers and birds, across the 
way, and backed by the pinkish plaster fayade of the cathe¬ 
dral; and by and by the Mexican young ladies began to 
come shyly forth and show their dark eyes and high-colored 
costumes in the plaza, and took very kindly to the music of 
our regimental bands playing of an evening. On the whole, 
they supported the presence of the invader with tolerable 
fortitude, and the spectacle of these petticoats was infinitely 
refreshing to the invader himself. Lord, how wearied out we 
all were with the camp, with the sight of our own bearded, 
weather-beaten faces, with our worn, stained, dusty uniforms, 
with the eternal movement of our life! If there had been a 
prospect of further fighting, I believe there was not a man of 
us but would have gone at it, with as fresh a zeal as in the 
beginning; but now, with nothing but peace on the hori¬ 
zon, what we longed for'above all else in the world was home. 
Captain Burke visited the hospital to see a soldier of the 


THE STREET OF THE GOOD DEATH 485 


2d Pennsylvanias, who had been severely wounded in the 
leg at the advance of our storming parties, and informed 
him that he would certainly get the silver medal “for bravery 
on the field of battle.” “Yes, sir?” says Private Donaldson 
(I think that was his name). “Yes, sir?” says the poor fellow, 
listlessly. “I'm gittin' almighty tired o’ these Mexican vittles, 
ain't you, sir? I wisht I could have one o' maw's dough¬ 
nuts!” 

Being settled in the city, Burke was now obliged to “turn 
from the sword to the pen” (which I quote from General 
Quitman), and among the letters, orders, proclamations, and 
so on which his general poured forth in abundance, the secre¬ 
tary took time to write to Mrs. Ducey, acquainting her with 
the finding of her son, which he did briefly and as gently as 
was possible, merely reciting the central fact, and leaving 
George to supply the details. He had been found and would 
go home as soon as he was fit to travel, wrote Burke, fer¬ 
vently hoping that nobody would inquire into the manner of 
the finding; what the young man himself told his family, 
Nat never knew. George had to be coaxed, argued, ordered 
to write, as if he had been a child; he was really not well in 
some obscure way; he would shrink and tremble pitifully at 
a sudden noise; he was thin and weak, and his face had fallen 
into uncanny lines of age. “Let him alone — he'll be all 
right,” the doctor answered, rather unsympathetically to 
Burke's questions. “He’s nothing but a bundle of nerves — 
like a woman; he hasn't got over his scare yet, but he will 
in a little. Sleeps sound and eats like a ploughboy; he doesn't 
need any medicine. Let him alone.” But if letting alone 
could have cured him, George would have recovered then 
and there; for excepting Burke himself and Jim Sharpless — 
who, although he disliked George as much as he could dislike 
anybody, had nevertheless too kind a heart and too much 
feeling for old days and associations to cast him off — no 
one ever came near the young man or so much as asked after 
him. It had been only a year, and there were many officers 
yet with us who could remember him; but none of them ever 
saw George as he passed along the streets, none of them 
acknowledged his salutes, he might have been wrapped in 
clouds such as we are told encompassed the Olympians, 
only, alas, there was nothing noble about poor George’s 


486 


NATHAN BURKE 


isolation. The position would have been intolerable to most 
men; for most of us, even if we have no moral sense, at least 
set a value on our neighbor's opinion. What he thinks of 
us may be of no importance to the strong, but it is a staff and 
bulwark to the weak. Burke used to wonder how George 
stood it; why didn't he try to get away, to go home or any¬ 
where and begin over? Apparently the idea never entered 
his head; he made himself exceedingly comfortable in the 
quarters Burke hired for him, took a great interest in getting 
his new clothes, linen, and shoes, and, being ignored by his 
own class, began before long to make friends in other and 
what we call lower circles, to whom he was very fluent on the 
subject of his wrongs and sufferings. 

Whether these gentry — amongst whom there were num¬ 
bers of those dubious, needy, scheming broken-down people 
of every calling under the sun who followed the army about 
— whether they believed George, or what they thought of 
him, did not much matter; at any rate, he did not lack a 
certain society, and perhaps a fellow-feeling created a bond 
between them and him. Burke used to meet them hovering 
about George's lodgings, eating and drinking with him at his 
boarding-house table, seedy-looking little men with furtive 
eyes, red-faced bouncing big men in frayed satin neckties, 
glaring waistcoasts, and dirty linen, invariably titled “ Judge" 
or “Doctor"; who they were the captain never had a chance 
to find out, for none of them displayed the slightest relish 
for his company; they vanished incontinently at the most 
remote glimpse of his grim, silent presence, and George him¬ 
self was not a person from whom one would expect very 
accurate information about anybody. According to him 
they were all the salt of the earth, “ great, big-hearted fel¬ 
lows," inexplicably fallen upon evil days like himself, and 
Burke thought it not worth while to inquire further. He 
discovered, however, that there was one exception in this 
congress of persecuted nobility, namely, Thomas Riley, late 
Saint Patrick's Brigade, whose darkling countenance the cap¬ 
tain recognized one day in the neighborhood of the Calle de 
Buena Muerte where George was established. 

“Was that fellow around here? What did he want?" he 
asked afterwards of George whom he found in a great state 
of virtuous indignation. 


THE STREET OF THE GOOD DEATH 487 


“Why, he came here to see me — actually had the impu¬ 
dence to come here and ask for me just as if he was on an 
equality! Said he was glad I got off, and liked to see me in 
so much better health. Can you beat that for cheek? I 
ordered him out of here pretty quick, I tell you!” 

“Did he want money?” asked Nathan, doubting that 
Mr. Riley was a person whom George could easily order 
away; but the latter shook his head. 

“Oh, no, he’s got lots of money — plunder, you know. 
Why, that man must have hundreds — thousands of dollars! 
He wouldn’t divide — catch him! No, he just came to see 
me, the low blackguard!” 

Burke was silent a moment. “ Do you know Riley seemed 
to me to be rather attached to you, George?” he said at last. 

George smirked feebly. “Well, you know, Burke, I was 
the only gentleman he’d ever had anything to do with, and I 
guess my manners, my — my style, you know, kind of im¬ 
pressed him. Hang it all, blood will tell!” 

Whether owing to his reception or not, this was the last of 
Riley; I never saw nor heard of him again, so that he may be 
living somewhere in a respected old age, or have long since 
gone to the dark end he very likely deserved— who knows? 
George stayed on contentedly enough; even the arrival of 
home letters full, I dare say, of fond, incoherent thanksgiv¬ 
ings, rhapsodies, queries, and entreaties, left him unmoved. 
Burke saw him yawning over the pages closely written in 
Mrs. Ducey’s neat, flowing hand; he did not read them 
through, and let most of them go unanswered for days and 
weeks. “What would you have?” said Sharpless, with a 
shrug, when Nat commented on this indifference. “If I were 
in George’s place, I’d be pretty hard put to it, too, I believe, 
for the proper, plausible thing to write. The job of explain¬ 
ing himself must be a little beyond George’s abilities.” 

“He doesn’t have to explain. Anything he did would be 
right in his mother’s eyes,” Burke said. “That’s the beauti¬ 
ful thing about mothers.” 

“I suppose so. And by the way, Nat, who’s putting up 
for all this? For George’s board and clothes, I mean, if it’s a 
fair question?” 

“Why, I am. It’s all right. I wrote and explained to 
Mr. Ducey — no need to settle until we get back home.” 


488 


NATHAN BURKE- 


“Huh!” said Jim, thoughtfully, “do you keep him in 
pocket-money, too?” 

“Well, he’s got to have a little something to spend, you 
know,” said Burke, argumentatively, conscious of something 
critical in the other’s attitude. But Jim only ejaculated 
“Huh!” a second time, and the subject was not again re¬ 
ferred to between them. 

This sounds like a piece of magnificent generosity on Cap¬ 
tain Nat’s part, but, to be frank, it wa»s no such thing, the 
provision he made for George being of the most frugal na¬ 
ture, and the accommodations, unlike his own, not at all 
palatial, as the young gentleman speedily let him know. 
During the whole time we were in Mexico City — some eight 
or ten weeks — George lodged in a house itself respectable 
enough, if poor and plain, but situated some distance towards 
the southeastern part of town, in an old and more or less 
disreputable quarter. It was convenient to Burke’s eye, 
and not far from our barracks, two good reasons for the 
selection; although I fear the addition of a large body of 
volunteer soldiery, newly paid, just off a hard campaign, 
and quartered in a big city for the first time in months, did 
not exactly raise the tone of the neighborhood. As usual, 
all the old, regular, native gambling, drinking, and other dives 
were running full head-on, and reenforced by a hundred new 
ones; and the Street of the Good Death, which, Jim Sharp¬ 
less suggested, might much more appropriately have been 
named the Street of the Bad Life, had its share of all these 
iniquities. It was a short street debouching on a little 
plaza where there were a church and a gloomy huddle of 
pawn-shops and pulquerias, and blank plastered stone houses 
with archways through which one caught a glimpse of as¬ 
cending stairs, and patios dark with dreadful promise — not a 
place, in short, where one would choose to take a promenade 
after dark; yet Captain Burke had formed a habit of cutting 
across here to reach home at the close of a day’s riding about 
the outskirts of the city, and being armed and mounted, 
never came to any harm thereby. It made it easy for him 
to stop and have a word with George once or twice in the 
week, a kind of duty about which I believe he was rather 
punctilious. 

He was riding thus one evening, when, entering the square 


THE STREET OF THE GOOD DEATH 489 


and passing, as usual, along its upper side, the captain all 
at once became aware that he was being followed and 
watched. In those narrow, ill-lighted streets he had to 
rein his horse to a walk, not being desirous of plunging head¬ 
long into some native family keeping house in the gutter 
with their pots and brazier according to their custom, or of 
stamping the life out of any Mexican dog, pig, or baby who 
might be sprawling about the road; so that the spy easily 
kept pace. In fact, his manoeuvres were so open that he 
struck Burke as a remarkably frank or careless sort of bravo; 
but we had received more than one concrete and bloody 
warning against treacherous attacks, and the captain made a 
mental note of this fellow's appearance. He was an ordi¬ 
nary peon in the rusty sombrero, the red-and-black blanket 
draped about his shoulders, the skin-tight soiled white cotton 
pantaloons, the rope sandals they all wore; and when Burke 
unexpectedly caught his eye, he first stood stock-still in 
hesitancy or confusion, then turned and darted up a neigh¬ 
boring alley! “Come, this is a new variety of melodrama," 
Nat thought, grinning to himself, and went on slowly, look¬ 
ing for the gentleman to pop up again at some conveniently 
dark corner. Nothing of the sort happened, however; and 
the captain would certainly never have given the incident 
another thought, but, two or three days later, sitting at his 
desk in the office at the palace, there was shown in to him 
in broad daylight, and with no mystery whatever, the very 
same native! The people came constantly to us with com¬ 
plaints or petitions, and, judging from the nature of some of 
these, I doubt if the city of Mexico had ever received so 
just and stable a government as during its occupation by 
the United States Army; but Burke imagined this case to 
be something out of the ordinary. 

“ Ya he le visto,” said he, briskly, not proposing to allow 
any beating about the bush; “esta el hombre que me era 
siguiendo la noche. P or que f Que quiere f " 

The man, who had a rather dull but not at all vicious face, 
answered humbly. Yes, he had been following the Senor 
Coronel, but he meant no harm, he would swear by the 
Virgin of Guadalupe, he meant no harm. He was an honest 
man. He wanted to look at the Senor Coronel. 

“To look at me?" repeated Burke, incredulously. 


490 


NATHAN BURKE 


Pero, si! He had been told to find a senor capitan Burke 

— but that must have been a mistake, for it was coronel and 
not capitan at all — who was a tall man with blue eyes. 
And they called him — as one might say, senor — el Peleador 

— that is, as one might say, el gran guerrero — he did not 
know the English word — 

“‘Fighting Burke * — I know,” said Nat, with impatience, 
“well?” 

Yes, that was it. He had been looking a long while; he 
was a hard-working man, he worked all day, and so he had 
to hunt for the senor in the evenings, when he went to and 
from the shop, because he had no other time. He was a 
tailor and worked in the Sastreria del Espiritu Santo, in the 
street of that name. You could ask the patron about him — 
ask whether Pablo Suinaga was not an honest man. 

“All right,” said Nat, “go ahead with it. What do you 
want of me? ” 

“Senor,” said Pablo Suinaga, respectfully, “the slow 
carrier never spills the water. First of all I was to make 
sure that you were the right man — and that has been a little 
hard, seeing that I cannot speak English, but I have it 
written down—” saying which he produced a dirty bit of 
paper with “Captain Nathan Burke” scrawled upon it, and 
spread it under the other’s eyes; he seemed to regard it as a 
kind of talisman, for he drew back when Burke put out a 
hand, plainly averse to his touching it. “Esta usted, verdad , 
senor?” he asked earnestly. 

“That is my name,” said Burke, profoundly puzzled, “all 
you had to do was to show it to somebody.” 

“Senor, con permiso, there is another Capitan Burke, and 
I found him first, only he was dead!” This was true, that 
officer having been killed, I think, at Molino del Rey; and 
Pablo recited the tale of his search and disappointment, 
and consequent loss of time with great feeling, notwithstand¬ 
ing the fact that it had nothing to do with the matter in 
hand. But Burke had to resign himself; it always took any 
one of them an inordinate time, with countless repetitions 
and embellishments, to get to the core of his affair, whatever 
that might be. Suinaga said that he lived in the Calle 
Higuera — “you know that street, senor, two or three times 
you have ridden through it on your horse, it runs the same as 


THE STREET OF THE GOOD DEATH 491 


Buena Muerte, only farther east. I have a wife and three 
children, and we are honest people, Senor Coronel, but the 
others in the house —” he spread his hands and indulged in 
an almost too expressive pantomime, “they are not honest, 
por Dios, no! All like that, the women worse than the men. 
I have told my wife not to have anything to do with them, 
but women! Telling is no good, you have to take a stick to 
them. Vaya, senor, you know how that is, without doubt! 
One day, six — eight months ago my wife told me, ‘ Pablo, 
there is a new young woman on the top floor.’ I said. ‘ Well, 
and if there is? Talvez es una ramera como las demas. Let 
her alone.’ She said, ‘But this one is white, and I think 
she is Americanita.’ Says I, ‘That doesn’t keep her from 

being a-as I said. Calla, mujer ! I don’t want to hear 

any more about her!’ That was the end of it for a while; 
but in two or three weeks she began again, ‘ Pablo, that girl is 
sick. She coughs, coughs all the time, pobrecita! 1 Said I: 
‘Sick, is she? She would be better dead, and burning in hell 
for her sins. I tell you, let her alone.’ ‘ Hombre de Dios! 1 
says she, ‘ is that a Christian way to talk? ’ And after that, 
senor, do what I would and say what I would, my wife went 
to see her and cooked food and took it to her, and nursed her 
like her own sister — lo que son las mujer es /” 

“Well?” said Burke,patiently. 

“Well, senor, she began to be very much sicker after a 
while, in spite of everything my wife did. She had fever, and 
she coughed blood, and the clothes would be wet on her as 
she lay in the bed — wet like rain. That was in the summer 
and she has got worse since; she cannot live. Everybody 
in the house and in the whole street has been kind; we have 
all gone and told her she was going to die, and offered to get 
Padre Felipe, so that she can die with the Sacrament, but 
she won’t hear of it. I myself have told her over and over 
again, but she only says she would get well if she could go 
back to where she comes from; and that when the army 
came, she would go back to your country, senor, for she is 
Americanita, as my wife thought. She has always seemed to 
be quite sure your army would come — and that is another 
sign she cannot live. They who are about to die see things —• 
quien sahe f Mirk, senor: when the fighting began, she heard 
the cannon before anybody else, and said, ‘ They are coming! ’ 



492 


NATHAN BURKE 


Then after your soldiers came into the city, she asked me to 
look for you, and she gave me that paper —” 

“ What's her name?" Burke interrupted him suddenly. 

The man didn’t know; he had never heard her called any¬ 
thing more than “Nina” or “Senorita, ” the common form of 
addressing^women in that country, where a surname is the 
last thing one needs. She had black eyes and hair, he said — 
ah! The Senor Coronel knew her? 

“I think so,” said Burke. 

Pablo Suinaga said he was very glad, and plainly meant it. 
He had had a long hunt. It was some time before he found 
out for a certainty that the other Burke was not the right 
man, although the sick woman steadfastly refused to believe 
it; and it was she herself, finally who, sitting propped up by a 
window — “she could not get her breath otherwise” — had 
caught sight of Burke as he rode past, and had screamed out 
that that was the man. “Pues, senor, even after I fol¬ 
lowed you, and found out your name by questioning at that 
house where you stopped, — after all that, she wasn’t certain 
whether she wanted to see you, and was in twenty minds 
about it from one hour to the next —lo que son las mujeres /” 

“She wants to see me now, though?” said Burke. 

“Oh, yes, she says you will take her back to your country 
— and she cannot last another week!” 

Burke went that night under Suinaga’s guidance to the 
house in the Calle Higuera, which was the sort of place to be 
expected, running over with men, women, and children, full 
of discordant outcry, foul sights, foul sounds, foul smells, 
an Inferno of dirt and vice. The stage was set most suitably 
for the closing act of the wretched drama, nor could any one 
have asked (I suppose) a sharper moral lesson than that con¬ 
veyed by Nance Darnell’s end; it would have satisfied even 
Mrs. Ducey, or any other good and pure woman. Two or 
three of the women and a tribe of children, seeing the blue 
uniform and shoulder-straps in Suinaga’s company, joined 
and trailed after us along the grimy stairs and corridors, 
curious and voluble in their high chittering Mexican voices. 
Nat heard the youngsters quarrelling and insisting and asking 
questions. “Is she dead? You said I could see her when 
she was dead — yes, you did, you did ! Oiga! Antonio ! 


THE STREET OF THE GOOD DEATH 493 


She’s dead, and I’m going to see her. Come along!” “ You 
lie — she is not dead. Manuel has seen her, Manuel Gar- 
fias. She lies on the bed with her eyes rolled up, and her 
mouth open, but she’s not dead. They have no candles at 
her head and feet — she’s not dead yet, is she, Manuelito? ” 
“ Tonto ! They would not have candles for her — she is a 
heretic — all the Llankies are heretics, tio Juan told me so.” 
“She’s dead, I tell you!” “She’s not — she goes this way 
in her. throat — Grr-ugh! Grr-ugh—agh!” “Who is the 
senor in the blue coat? Ask him for a centavo — all the 
Americanos are rich — their houses are made of gold.” 
“Senor, l am very poor, and sick and starving. For the love 
of God give me a little something!” “To me, too, senor. 
My mother is sick and my father is sick, and we have nothing 
to eat —!” They clung about his knees, whining. “I 
will pay you all to go away,” he said, sick at heart; “and 
every one that stays away shall have double when I go, but 
if he comes back in the meanwhile, nada!” The bargain 
was soon struck, while the women looked on and laughed. 

“You be off, too, all of you!” said the tailor, turning at the 
threshold of one of the squalid dens they called rooms; he 
seemed to have some misty idea of the decencies of the 
moment, and was, perhaps, a man to be obeyed. “The 
senor wants to see her by herself. Santa Maria, must I 
speak twice, then? Salgan, ustedes, todas ! ” 

They scattered screeching and some of them giggling. 
Burke went into the room and went up to the pallet-bed 
which was huddled by the window — the sashless and un¬ 
glazed hole in the wall that served that purpose, that is. 
There was a light burning and smoking near by; Nance lay 
in the attitude he had heard one of the boys describe, asleep 
or at least unconscious. She was so changed, he would 
hardly have known her. He stood looking down at her. 
We hear a great deal from poetry and romance about the 
awful beauty and majesty of death; yet believe me, it is 
only in books that the article and act of dying is any 
way majestic or aught but pitiful. This body gives 
up its hold with such dishonorable struggles, with such 
slow and painful disfigurement, as the senses shrink to 
witness; and if we would be plain with ourselves, we must 
acknowledge that not all our creeds, nor the belief in heaven 


494 


NATHAN BURKE 


and immortality and choiring angels can gild the physical 
hideousness of our end. So ghastly was Nance’s aspect that 
the young man thought for an instant the end had really 
come; but she roused at his exclamation, and opened her 
eyes, which looked very large and brilliant, and fixed them 
on him. 

“Nance, do you know me?” he asked, for, in spite of the 
brightness of her look, there was something singularly blank 
and distant in it. 

She made a fluttering movement with her right hand which 
Burke recognized as an effort to put it out; and said in a 
voice which to his surprise sounded quite strong and natural: 
“Of course I know ye, Nat. I reckoned you’d come. Won’t 
ye set? Set down here by th’ bed.” 

Burke obeyed dumbly, and took her clammy cold hand in 
his; he was a good deal moved, but Nance herself not at 
all, apparently; she lay and looked at him without emotion 
in that calm of defeat which death seems to allow alike to 
saints and sinners, accompanying the most ominous features 
of illness with a merciful blunting of the understanding. 
“ Lord, let me know mine end, and of my days the number — ” 
but did any man ever make that prayer in earnest, or realize 
that dissolution was upon him? That Nance did not was 
made clear almost by the first words she uttered. 

“I been right poorly, Nathan, but I’m feeling a little mite 
better this last week. I guess I’ll be up pretty soon now. 
I look kinder peaked, don’t I?” 

“Yes, you — you show you’ve been sick,” Burke said. 

“I didn’t ’low I’d ever bother you agin, Nat, but then I 
wasn’t lookin’ out for bein’ sick, y’ know. Person feels 
diff’rent ’bout a thing like that when they’re sick, somehow. 
Seemed, as long as th’ army was right here, ’n’ you was here, 
’twouldn’t do no harm for to let you know, anyways. Tell 
ye, Nathan, I was pretty nigh crazy to see a white man, let 
alone you. Th’ people ’a’ been reel kind, but shucks! 
they’re Mexicans — you know what they are. They mean 
well, but for a while here they had me plumb scairt, talkin’ 
’bout dyin’. That was before I begun to git better, y’ 
know. I jest c’ldn’t stand it — I had to send for you.” 

She could get through this explanation only by pausing 
many times with painful gasps and chokings, her voice lessen- 


THE STREET OF THE GOOD DEATH 495 


ing to a mere thread of a whisper at the end; Burke began 
some words meant to assure her that he wanted nothing so 
much as to help her whenever he could, but she went on 
without, apparently, hearing him: “They even come in ’n’ 
told me you was dead — stood me down you was dead, when 
I jest knew you wasn’t! That shows how much they know 
— pore critters!” 

“Haven’t you had any doctor?” 

“Oh, law, yes. A doctor ’n’ a priest, too. They’re jest 
th’ same as th’ rest, they ain’t got any sense, any of ’em. 
’F I could git out o’ here, I’d git well a heap quicker. Why, 
I don’t feel a bit bad. It’s only I’m so tired.” 

“Well, I’m going to get you out of here, quick as I can, 
Nance,” said Burke, cheerfully. “It’s a good thing you sent 
for me — best thing you could have done.” 

“Yes, I ’lowed you’d take me away. It’ll cost somethin’ 
of course, but Pap’ll pay ye. People most injinerally don’t 
b’leeve it; but Pap’s mighty pertickler ’bout owin’ anybody 
money — you know how Pap is,” she said with no change 
of expression, and in a manner so reasonable as to render 
her words all the more startling. But the next moment she 
seemed to come to herself. “Was I talkin’ ’bout Pap, Na¬ 
than? Ain’t that funny? I git to thinkin’ ’bout him, ’n’ 
first you know, I fergit he’s dead.” 

Whether it was the change, the fresh air and greater 
comforts Burke was able to give her, or whether these ex¬ 
tremes of weakness and revival are familiar features of her 
disease — our doctors themselves seemed to be of divided 
opinion — Nance did actually improve a little during the 
next few weeks. There never was the slightest hope for her; 
but even this brief reprieve and respite was grateful, and the 
poor thing herself talked on of getting well and going home 
with a heart-rending confidence. Would any one, would 
Burke, her only friend, have had her recover? I do not 
know. In her moments of suffering, the young man found 
himself with horror pausing on the thought, Lord God Al¬ 
mighty, let her live or let her die, but one way or the other, 
let the torment be ended, for flesh and blood cannot longer 
endure this spectacle! And I will say this, that no man or 
woman has ever seen a like hopeless decline ^pven of the one 


496 


NATHAN BURKE 


nearest and dearest without, consciously or not, the same 
prayer. 

Burke used to visit her every day or so, thereby provid¬ 
ing additional color and body, I dare say, to those reports 
which George Ducey had been so forward to circulate. If 
Nance ever thought of that passage in her career, she did not 
mention it; she never spoke about her recent life at all, 
except the months of her illness; it all seemed to have slipped 
away from her like a foul garment. What would going home 
have meant to her, in health? Yet she dwelt on it, or at 
least used that form of words constantly, without, however, 
asking after anybody, or naming any place. She was very 
much like other invalids, talking to Nat when he sat with 
her about her appetite, the food, the doctor, the nurse, her 
improvement since yesterday — what would you have? It 
is only in works of fiction, as I have said, that the death-bed 
is poetical or dramatic; and I think now that poor Nance’s 
last days were not less sad for being so commonplace. Her 
mind was at no time absolutely clear, being liable to lapses 
such as we have seen; but towards the end she wandered a 
great deal more, calling out and naming people who were 
strange to Burke, often with a distressing earnestness, and 
talking to herself with feeble gestures. She died in Novem¬ 
ber, the week before we started for home. 


CHAPTER XIII 
Arms yield to the Toga 


And now Johnny was to go marching home, with his 
honors and his scars, with his limp and his hanging sleeve, 
with the goggle-eyed stone idol he dug up with his bayonet 
out of the crumbling side of Cholula Pyramid, with the 
Mexican cavalry officer’s sash and sabre, and the silver 
crucifix he bought in Thieves’ Market down by the Zocalo 
of a Sunday morning. “ Think they’ll look kinder pretty 
fixed up over th’ chimbly-piece — sort of a mee-mento,” 
says Johnny sentimentally, not yet aware, honest lad, that 
a cruel stab of pain whenever it threatens rain will supply 
him with a much more forcible mee-mento for the rest of 
his life. He thinks — with what longing! — of the cabin 
and the corn-patch, the cross-roads schoolhouse, the swim¬ 
ming-hole— “It’s a terrible pity ’bout Lem Stiles! Never 
think of goin’ in swimmin’ ’thout jest nachally lookin’ fer Lem 
to be there. An’ my lordy, th’ times we’ve snaked melons 
out’n old Pete Baker’s patch! Lem he got shot, y’ know, 
back to Cerro Gordo, last spring — terrible pity!” he sighs 
retrospectively to some other Johnny who, calling up his own 
home-picture of prairie-land, mountains, sea-beaten coast, 
or palmetto-swamp, and some Lem Stiles of his acquaintance, 
nods in sympathy. Yes, it’s a pity, but war is war; it is all 
over now; and we have done our duty, no matter if the 
generals do wrangle and contradict, and the newspapers 
find fault; we have played, if not a hero’s part, at least a 
man’s. Let us go home and kiss Jennie and the babies, who 
won’t be caring a penny whether we are heroes or not, so 
we are safe and whole! 

There was, however, one man who, all signs to the con¬ 
trary notwithstanding, was firmly convinced that the con¬ 
flict was not yet ended, that it would only end when our 
government should have acquired undisputed sway through¬ 
out the Republic of Mexico, and seen the wisdom of incor- 
2 k 497 


498 


NATHAN BURKE 


porating that territory with the United States. Burke’s 
general used to go over these theses by the hour with much 
coruscating and explosive rhetoric, and a terrific .amount of 
letter-writing; and, in order to further these mighty events, 
the first step, it appeared, was to apply to the general-in¬ 
chief for the command of a full division, “in consonance with 
my rank as major-general,” said Quitman, formally pointing 
out that he had waived this right at Puebla “when the 
exigencies of the public service were imperative.” General 
Scott replied simply that he didn’t consider himself able to 
make any such arrangement; whereupon it became neces¬ 
sary for Burke’s general to apply in person to the secretary 
of war at Washington. “And while there, Burke, I shall not 
fail to call Mr. Marcy’s attention — if I go no higher than 
him—” Quitman informed his aide impressively— “to 
the inaccuracy of the reports describing the taking of Mexico 
City, and my division’s part in the actions. It’s no secret 
— everybody in this division, everybody in the whole army, 
knows it — we have not received our due. There ought 
not to be any doubt in the public mind — the American 
public, every man, woman, and child in the United States, 
should know that we were foremost in the attack on the 
fortress, and first at the city gates. It’s only our just due. 
Great God, is a man like you to be passed over with a mere 
word, ‘ Captain — now Colonel — Burke displayed great 
coolness and daring!’ Is that all they’ve got to say? They 
could say that much for every single man, every last private 
among my gallant fellows. No, they haven’t done us 
justice. And as to my recklessness — as to my needlessly 
sacrificing my men at the Belen Garita — it’s a monstrous 
falsehood. The lives of my men are as dear to me as my own. 
I never received one order from General Scott to advance 
by the other road — never! At least, none that I can re¬ 
member. He never sent me any word about it — nothing 
that I could possibly regard as authoritative, anyhow. It’s 
accusing me of insubordination — / insubordinate and 
reckless! They little know John Quitman. No, we’ve 
been misrepresented, Burke, perhaps not intentionally so, 
but still misrepresented. At best, newspaper reports are 
seldom strictly true — I’m not reflecting on your friend Mr. 
Sharpless, of course,” added the general hastily, afraid that 


ARMS YIELD TO THE TOGA 


499 


he had hurt the other’s feelings; “he is one of a few who are 
at once brilliant and absolutely reliable. A talented man, 
sir, and what is more a man of heart , — a man for whom I 
have the greatest respect.” 

General Quitman with upwards of fifty officers from his 
division, most of whom like Burke and unlike the general 
himself were definitely resigning their commissions, left the 
city of Mexico about the middle of November, receiving 
such magnificent formalities of farewell as delighted the 
general’s soul and abjectly dismayed his late secretary, who 
was no hand at all at speech-making, and never knew which 
way to look while the compliments were passing. The 
municipal authorities called in a body to manifest their 
respect and good-will; the commander-in-chief dined us 
elaborately. Colonel Burnett of the New York regiment 
addressed to the general a farewell oration that brought 
tears to Quitman’s eyes; the feelings he expressed — said 
the colonel — were those of the entire division towards one 
who was to them at once general, father, and friend —“your 
fame was known to us before our association as officers, and 
its lustre has brightened as the sun from morn to noon. . . . 
We have seen you at Chapultepec as cool as when we meet 
you now in friendship. . . . Not a muscle moved in that 
stern and manly face but to smile when the colors of your 
division and our beloved country were thrown to the free 
winds above the conquered castle!” recited Colonel Burnett 
amid prodigious applause. Indeed, what he said was true, 
and there was not one of us but felt a great love and admira¬ 
tion for our commander, so brave, so boyish, so high-souled. 
He replied with a great deal of feeling and spirit, referring 
regretfully to the fact that he was now about to separate 
from those gallant officers and men with whom he had been 
so honorably associated — “but I regard it as the soldier’s 
part to seek the path where duty calls me!” says our general 
in a thrilled and trembling voice, honestly convinced that 
duty called him to go and bedevil the authorities into giving 
him a commission in the regular army! We cheered him to 
the echo; and then somebody got up — it was Captain 
Hutton, also of the New York volunteers — and “presented 
Colonel Nathan Burke with an elegant pair of silver spurs, 
accompanying the gift with a brief but extremely apropos 


500 


NATHAN BURKE 


speech. Colonel Burke made an appropriate reply!” 
Heavens and earth, I can see Jimmie now, scrawling the 
above note for his newspaper, grinning and underscoring 
“ brief but extremely apropos! ” The fact is, both gentlemen 
were embarrassed almost to the point of speechlessness, and 
nothing but the kind applause of the rest relieved the situa¬ 
tion. 

We reached New Orleans a day or so before Thanksgiving, 
where we got, literally, a roaring reception, salvos of cannon 
going off in the Place d’Armes and Lafayette Square fit to 
deafen the populace; more oratory — more enthusiasm — 
crowds of bewilderingly pretty women — the American 
Theatre jammed to the roof that night, and everybody 
standing up when our general entered to “See, the conquer¬ 
ing hero comes!” on a very vigorous brass band. All of 
which we were once more regretfully obliged to part from, 
as we took boat up the river next day, amid tremendous 
hurrahing from the mob assembled on the levees. Who 
wouldn’t be Johnny when he comes marching home? There 
were a number of civilians trailing humbly in our company, 
among them Mr. James Sharpless, and our friend, the ex¬ 
lieutenant of Ohio volunteers, George Ducey, Esquire, — a 
bracketing together of their names which would have pleased 
neither one. “What do you want to carry him around on 
cotton for, Nat?” growled the former; “damn it, let him 
herd along with the discharged men on one of the transports 
— it would be enough too good for the fellow. What are 
you going to do with him? You can’t have him around — 
nobody’ll speak to him. If he had the spirit of a louse he’d 
keep out of it himself. You take as much care of him as 
if he were actually worth something—” 

“He is, to his mother,” said Burke. 

“Why, of course, but let his mother look out for him, then. 
You’re not responsible for George Ducey — it’s quixotic. 
He’s stolen from you and lied about you, and he’ll keep on 
stealing from you and lying about you. Does that fellow know 
what gratitude or justice or humanity means? He’s never 
done a thing in his life that won’t be remembered to his ever¬ 
lasting discredit. When you get home, you’re going to find 
out what you have to thank George for,” cried out Jim, 
excitedly. 


ARMS YIELD TO THE TOGA 


501 


“What difference does all that make?” asked the other. 
“I know as well as you what George is. Do you suppose 
I’m looking after him because I’m in hopes he’ll turn over 
a new leaf — reform and become a worthy member of so¬ 
ciety? He’d never do that in a thousand years. I’m not 
doing it for George’s sake — I’m doing it for my own. 
Would you have had me let him hang? Or, after we got 
him off from that, should I have let him starve?” 

“You might let him work now, anyhow,” said Sharpless 
with a half-laugh; “that would be at least a novelty.” Yet 
he perhaps felt himself answered, and offered no more objec¬ 
tions. He looked at his friend affectionately, whimsically. 
“Oh, go your way, Nat Burke. To the end of your days 
you will be shouldering somebody’s burdens, and somebody 
will be imposing on you.” So this fiery discussion con¬ 
cluded, the two friends smoking in perfect amity with their 
heels cocked up on the guards of the Mississippi steamboat. 

Oh, those old Mississippi river boats! I swear when I 
remember them, the fleets of Solomon, the galleys of Cleo¬ 
patra, the state barge of Venice — all the glorious argosies 
of history pale and dwindle. We voyaged, surrounded by 
mirrors, gilding, veneering, plush, and panels; we ate and 
drank whatever was best or richest in the country; the 
captain was an elegant creature in a dress-coat who, when 
the hour arrived, came and took the oldest or most impor¬ 
tant of the ladies by the hand, and led her to the dinner- 
table and placed her there with French graces. A horde of 
negro boys in white jackets waited on us; it took half a 
dozen of them to do one man’s work, but what of that? 
They were the most idle, good-natured, untrustworthy, 
amiable rascals on earth, and they brought us the most 
Olympian mint-juleps that ever mortal tasted, and blacked 
our boots to the utter perfection. In the evenings the piano 
went gayly in the grand saloon; white organdies and laces 
spread like drifts of snow on the guards; poker and seven-up 
flourished on the lower decks. Who could have counted the 
pretty girls, darky roustabouts, bowie-knives, duelling 
pistols, packs of cards, and flasks of Bourbon on one boat 
ascending or descending that murky tide? They were as 
the sands of the seashore in number. Sometimes one had 
as much as three weeks of these unalloyed delights on the 


502 


NATHAN BURKE 


way up-stream from New Orleans to Cincinnati. Talk of 
your Rhine or your Nile after that, if you have the face! 
I have seen the Lorelei, and I may yet see the Pyramids, but 
I am sure neither one of them could give me such a thrill 
as overtaking the General Jackson, full steam up, and rumbling 
like a volcano, everybody crowding to the rails, cursing, 
screaming, betting, and passing her victoriously — “just 
as if she were standing still, begad, sir!” Not infrequently 
the winner’s boiler “let go,” in the classic phrase, shortly 
after one of these trials of speed, and Bludsoe’s ghost went up 
alone in the smoke of the Prairie Belle. There was always 
the chance. Can you match that on the Rhine? 

It is easy to see that with such a diversity of company 
and entertainment even George Ducey might find his level ; 
and he did, somewhere or somehow, being entirely ignored 
by Quitman, his staff, and the other army men who happened 
to be passengers on our boat. Burke, having seen that 
George was comfortable, conceived that he himself had done 
all that duty required, and left the young man more or less 
to his own devices. I think the latter was quite satisfied 
with the arrangement; he heartily disliked his protector, 
as was natural. I don’t know how he passed his time, but 
very likely he made more friends than Burke himself, who 
was too much occupied with thoughts of home. He had 
heard from Mary at last; the letter came just before we left 
the City, a flatteringly affectionate letter full of proud talk 
about her “hero.” Nat used to get it out and read it over 
and ponder its pretty sentences in alternate fits of hope and 
confidence, and of deadly misgivings. He raged at his own 
distrust, he despised his jealousy, yet could not banish it. 
He would have given worlds to open his heart to Jim — but 
how could he? Noblesse oblige ! and deep within him, Burke 
knew that even if they could bring themselves to talk about 
her, the brother would evade his questions. “Nobody is 
ever frank with you about a thing like that. They only tell 
you what they see you want to hear,” said Nat to himself, 
rather bitterly. I dare say Colonel Burke was a dull, grumpy 
companion these days, for all his military titles and distinc¬ 
tions ; indeed, army celebrities were a drug in the market with 
us, and any brisk youth with a turn for cards and throwing 
dice was much more popular. As Nathan was lounging one 


ARMS YIELD TO THE TOGA 


503 


afternoon on the guards with his chair tilted back, while he 
surveyed the low, hot, melancholy landscape sliding by (a 
sort of gloomy pastime which he rather affected at this time), 
two men sauntered up, took a turn along the decks in front 
of him, and finally came to a halt against the rail a few feet 
away. Nat looked up absently, but neither noticed him; 
they went on talking without lowering their voices. “Yep, 
you want to look out, son,” said the elder, who had gray hair 
and looked like a planter in a small way, well-to-do, but not 
rich; he addressed the other in good-natured warning. 
“Take my advice, and don’t get mixed up in any card game 
on these boats. They’re chock-full of sharks and swindlers, 
and they’ll do you every time. I don’t want to run you, you 
understand; I’m just telling you because you look to me like 
a young fellow that ain’t had much experience, huh —?” 

“Oh, I dunno. I’ve been around some,” said the other, 
apparently a little nettled at this patronage; he was a very 
young man. “ This is my second trip. First time was with 
Dad, though. I guess I’ve got my eye-teeth cut, or the old 
man wouldn’t have let me go off by myself. I’m going to 
buy hogs — got to go up to Kentucky. I reckon I’ll get off 
at Paducah.” 

“Yes, I know. You hadn’t ought to go showing your 
money around like I saw you last night, either,” said the 
other, shaking his head reprovingly; “you’ll get in trouble 
first thing you know. These card gamblers, minute they 
see a man has a little money, they lay for him — ain’t that 
so, Mister?” he appealed to Nathan confidently. 

“Shouldn’t wonder. I’ve been told so,” assented Burke, 
amiably. 

“There, you see ,” said the mentor, turning to his young 
friend triumphantly; “this gentleman says so, too, and he 
looks to be a man that would know. Can’t fool you much, 
I guess,” said he to Burke, knowingly. “Why, what d’ye 
think? Yesterday there was a fellow come up to me in the 
bar, and we got to talking like a person does, you know, and 
presently he says: ‘ Say, I bet I know a card trick you can’t 
beat.’ ‘All right,’ says I, ‘less see it.’ Well, he got out 
his cards, but he only took three, and — say, you got a deck, 
Major? I could show you the trick a heap quicker’n I 
can explain it.” 


504 


NATHAN BURKE 


“Don’t believe I have — not in these clothes, anyhow,” 
said Nathan. 

“ Pshaw, is that so? Here, wait a minute, I got some cards 
in my stateroom —” 

“Hold on,” interrupted the younger man; “I’ve got a 
deck,” and he brought out an exceedingly dirty and greasy 
collection, and moved up a chair. “Don’t know that the 
whole fifty-two are here, but you said you only wanted 
three, didn’t you?” he inquired with a charming ingenu¬ 
ousness. 

“Three’s enough. Gimme the Queen of Spades for one, 
will you? I reckon I’ll be kind of awkward at it, but I can 
show you something the way he did it. He took and threw 
the cards around, backs up, kind of careless like, y’know, and 
then says to me: ‘Now you pick the baby,’ and I —” 

“The baby’s the Queen of Spades?” inquired Nat, begin¬ 
ning to show an innocent interest. 

“Yes. Just like this, y’know, he threw ’em around. 
There, I did it better that time. Can you pick her?” 

“Huh, that’s easy enough!” said the boy, with contempt. 
“I saw her plain when you flipped her down. It’s the 
middle one.” Pie stretched out his hand and turned over 
the card which proved to be “the baby” sure enough. 

“You got me that time,” said the other, and laughed. 
“The way the fellow did it ’twasn’t so easy, though. Bet 
you can’t pick her now.” 

“Bet you fifty cents I can!” 

“Aw, fifty cents!” 

“Well, bet you five dollars then!” said the boy, defiantly, 
and got the money out and flung it down on the seat of the 
chair. “It’s the card over farthest to the left — my left, 
I mean.” 

“All right, I’ll just take that bet,” said the instructor. 
“Which do you say it is, Cap? D’ye agree with him?” 

Nathan brought the front legs of his chair down hard; 
he studied the cards with a knotted brow; he considered 
deeply, rubbing his chin, while the others eyed him. At 
last, “I give it up!” he announced with a mild sigh. 

The left-hand one, on being exposed, was the Queen of 
Spades again. “Pretty easy money!” said the younger 
man, gathering in his winnings with a triumphant chuckle. 
“You’d ought to have bet my way, Mister.” 


ARMS YIELD TO THE TOGA 505 

“You can’t do it three times hand-running,” retorted the 
planter. 

“Can’t, hey? I’d like to know why not. It’s as easy as 
easy. All you got to do is keep your eye peeled.” 

And, amazing to relate, he did win a third time — and 
then lost — and then won again twice, at gradually increas¬ 
ing stakes, while Burke looked on admiringly. “You’ve 
got pretty good luck guessing,” he remarked. 

“Take a try yourself, Colonel,” said the youth. “’Tain’t 
much of a card trick, far as I can see. Take a try.” 

“I’ve got a kind of superstition about cards,” said Burke, 
sadly; “never hold any hands, or have any luck.” 

“I ain’t having much myself with these cards,” said the 
planter, rising — and was it fancy, or did the two exchange 
a fleeting glance? “They’re too durned old and sticky — 
I can’t handle ’em. Wait till I get that pack out of my 
cabin.” 

As he went off, the boy leaned forward, with his face 
close to Burke’s and whispered: “Say, Mister, on the dead 
level, ’tain’t luck. I’ve got the baby card marked with a 
little picked-up place in the middle of the back — you can 
see it easy if you squint a little sideways so the light strikes it. 

I done it with a pin under my nail when he wasn’t looking. 
Say, you bet on it every time, and we’ll clean him out. Or 
just once — for fun, y’know — just bet him once, hey?” 

“Oh, I guess I don’t want to take advantage of an honest 
old fellow like him,” said the colonel, grinning. 

The other drew back, scrutinizing Burke narrowly. He 
hesitated, then burst into a short laugh, got up, thrusting 
the cards into his pocket, and walked off. He was a big, 
powerfully built young fellow, not more than nineteen or 
twenty years old, with hardly a line in his heavy, sallow 
face — a promising rogue. Burke saw him joined by the 
other scoundrel a little farther along, and they strolled off 
together in search of easier victims, probably. On inquiry 
Nat discovered that the gray-headed man went by the name 
of “Canada Charlie” and was a well-known character on 
the river. “They say he’s been known to clean up ten or 
fifteen thousand dollars on one trip,” said Sharpless, who, 
on hearing of this adventure, immediately busied himself to 
collect further information. Jim was always at heart much 
more the journalist than the man of letters; men and women, 


506 


NATHAN BURKE 


good and bad, high and low — everything interested him. 
He loved his trade of telling one-half the world how the other 
half lives, and brought to the practice of it, humor, sym¬ 
pathy, understanding, a great knack of enlisting confidence. 
He even had some little talk with Canada Charlie himself. 
“I spoke about his experience with you, Nat, and the old 
rascal grinned, but all he would say was: ‘Yep, you can’t 
skin an honest man — I’ve noticed it often.’” 

“That was a pretty open speech for such a man to make,” 
said Burke, surprised. “I can’t see anything particularly 
honest about it, anyhow. It’s just that this something-for- 
nothing-and-beat-the-other-fellow business always has struck 
me as all damn nonsense. You can’t get anything without 
paying for it, and you don’t want to when all’s said — you’d 
rather pay.” 

“Mr. Canada Charlie’s profession is evidently based on 
the opposite theory, and I suppose his experience points that 
way, too.” said Jim. “Naturally he wasn’t very expansive 
about himself. I asked him if he generally travelled with a 
friend. He said sometimes, not always; he intimated that 
a partnership was convenient, but had its drawbacks — like 
dividing up the haul, I dare say, though he wasn’t explicit. 
He picked the young man up in New Orleans, and says he’s 
a smart boy. Hope they won’t get hold of George, Nathan.” 

“Oh, George is safe — he hasn’t got any money,” said 
Burke with a laugh. 

Quitman’s home was in Natchez, Mississippi, and on our 
arrival there, the general “was received with every demon¬ 
stration of honor. He was saluted with cannon captured at 
Alvarado, and afterwards escorted into the city by a civic 
and military procession, and Wm. T. Martin, Esq., in a 
strain of impassioned oratory, welcomed the hero home....” 
All of which you may find in the issue of the Natchez Sentinel 
for the following day, and I can personally testify to the 
accuracy of the account. The “cannon captured at Alva¬ 
rado” were going at intervals all day with a stunning uproar 
— which, in view of the fact that at this “capture” nobody 
on either side had fired a single shot, seemed to Burke a 
little inappropriate. The streets were packed, the applause 
deafening. A parade led by a brass band, a delegation from 


ARMS YIELD TO THE TOGA 


507 


the Masonic fraternity, another of survivors from the battle 
of New Orleans, another of invited celebrities, the bench and 
bar of the city in a body, the mayor and council and all the 
prominent citizens, marched out to General Quittnan’s beau¬ 
tiful home a mile or so from town, and welcomed us in state. 
Wm. T. Martin, Esq., — who was a long, lank young man 
with a richly rolling voice, fiery black eyes, and a great 
mane of black, shining hair which he tossed back and shook 
back and combed back from his face with dramatic move¬ 
ments,— Wm. T., I say, fairly submerged us with his impas¬ 
sioned oratory. “How wonderful!” says he — putting his 
hair back with one dash of his left hand, while he thrust the 
right into the breast of his black frock-coat — “how won¬ 
derful is it that this very city, bearing the name of a noble 
fragment of the Aztec race, who, driven from Mexico by 
the sword of the Montezumas or of Cortez, found shelter 
on this bluff, where their proud name is still preserved — 
how wonderful is it that from their ashes should have ap¬ 
peared an avenger of their wrongs, and that our Quitman 
(frantic applause) from fair Natchez (more applause) was 
the instrument in the hands of Providence to ‘spoil the 
spoiler.’” He might well call it wonderful; to him alone 
belongs the glory of discovering this important historical 
fact, and we all listened in respectful astonishment. “ I 
do not attempt to quote his burning language,” said the 
Sentinel next day; nor shall I. Burke’s general rejoined in 
a manner that became him well, giving and taking credit 
where it was due, and thanking everybody in a very manly 
style, if it might have been more simple. “I will not re¬ 
peat what, no doubt, ere this, you have been wearied of 
reading —” he said — and then, like many another orator, 
before and since, went to work and repeated it! 

“Shall I tell you how this devoted band of less than half 
a score thousand men, penetrated into the Mexican Valley 
through a line of all but impregnable batteries, thrice and 
again defeated an enemy of four times their numbers, took 
guns by the hundred and prisoners by the thousand (applause), 
and raised the starry banner of Columbia (cheers) over that 
citadel where, since the entry of the Spaniard, no alien flag 
had ever waved? No, my friends, I shall not dwell upon 
these deeds, but one egotism I shall commit — I was amongst 


508 


NATHAN BURKE 


the foremost to cross the barricades of the city, after a de¬ 
termined resistance, and it was my happy fate that, at my 
personal command, the Stars and Stripes were first flung to 
the wind of Mexico above the palace ( tremendous applause). 
And now when shall we gather the fruits of our conquest? 
I speak out boldly as I spoke when the Texas question came 
up. I say, keep this country ( wild applause) ! It is its fate. 
It is our fate. We cannot shirk this responsibility!” 

And, after a good deal more in the same heroic vein, amid 
frequent outbursts of hurrahing, the general at last sat 
down. I think he had one eye on the presidency at this 
time — it would have been difficult to name a general in our 
army who did not once in a while look in that direction; 
but, if ever there was an honest man, it was Quitman, and 
if he was talking for effect, it is my solemn belief he didn’t 
know it. 

In the evening we had a banquet where all the notables 
in the place, that is, about three-fifths of the whole male 
population — the rest were colored — sat down, and there 
was a great deal of good eating and ditto drinking. Toasts 
were called — by Wm. T. Martin — and responded to, 
and there were interludes of music. The Sentinel has it all: 
“‘The President of the United States.’ Music: Hail 
Columbia. 

“‘General John A. Quitman, “Second to None!”’ Music: 
Hail to the Chief. 

“‘The Memory of Washington.’ Music: The Dead March 
in Saul.” 

And so on, through General Taylor and General Scott, 
the Army, the Navy, the Heroes of the Revolution — never 
since have I sat through so exhaustive a list. We actually 
even sifted down to The Hardy.Sons of Ohio and Colonel 
Nathan Burke {Music: Pop goes the Weasel) ! Alas, when he 
arose, the unfortunate colonel could not get out a word, 
and but for the presence of mind of Wm. T. Martin, Esq., 
nobody knows what might have happened. For that gentle¬ 
man, taking pity on him after a few moments of Burke’s 
stammering and stuttering, rose up, and remarking gracefully 
that the situation and the honorable confusion of the chief 
actor reminded him strongly of an incident in the life of the 


ARMS YIELD TO THE TOGA 


509 


great Father of his Country (;prolonged applause ) when under 
very similar circumstances he received the thanks of the 
Virginia Assembly, added: “Sir, I will say to you in the 
words of the Speaker on that occasion: ‘ Sit down, Colonel, 
sit down! Your modesty is equal to your valor, and I can 
say nothing in higher praise of either!'” Whereupon, to 
an accompaniment of cheers, Colonel Burke did most gladly 
and thankfully sit down, and I have no doubt everybody 
else was as much relieved as himself. 

But now, the Press of America being toasted, up got 
Mr. James Sharpless, — Major Sharpless, as he appeared in 
the papers next day,—put his thick black hair back from 
his brow with one hand, stuck the other into the front of his 
frock-coat, and began. He said — but what didn’t he say? 
He quoted history, he quoted poetry, he quoted the Bible 
and Shakespeare — the eagle screamed and soared, the 
starry banner waved, the cannon thundered throughout his 
speech. Wm. T. Martin was nowhere beside him, a mere 
squib in the glare of Jim’s rockets and red fire. The chiv¬ 
alry of the South, the principles of Democracy, the glorious 
institutions of Freedom — I don’t think he neglected one of the 
well-worn topics or phrases. And such was the enthusiasm 
he aroused, that when, after winding up with a fervid 
eulogium of Mississippi, Natchez, and the present meeting, 
— where, he said, he had heard such oratory as it had never 
been his fortune to hear before, — he resumed his seat, he 
had to get up twice in response to the applause; and sat down 
again, with an almost imperceptible wink at Burke as he 
emptied his glass of whiskey and water. 

General Quitman and some others of the older company 
left, I think, shortly after this. But, to tell the truth, 
neither Colonel Burke nor Mr. Sharpless, nor — I have a 
strong suspicion—most of the rest of us, ever had but a very 
hazy idea of the subsequent proceedings. And, waking up 
late with a raging headache the next morning, the colonel 
found himself the owner of a coat several sizes too small for 
him, and a brand-new gold-headed cane the like of which he 
was not in the habit of carrying; and received, in the course 
of the day, two invitations to dine, and twenty-five dollars 
in payment of a bet from gentlemen whom he did not remem¬ 
ber ever to have seen or heard of before in his whole life! 


CHAPTER XIV 

In which Colonel Burke gets his Discharge 

Burke parted from his late commander at Natchez with 
a regret which I believe the general shared. He was quite 
sure of his brevet from Washington, sanguine, visionary, and 
enthusiastic as a boy, full of plans for the new conquest of 
Mexico in which he was very anxious for his ex-aide to take 
part. “ Raise a regiment, Burke, you could easily raise a 
regiment, a man of your prominence at home in your own 
State, and abroad — hundreds would flock to your standard! 
I have no doubt, for that matter — although this is, I need 
hardly tell you, in the strictest confidence — I have no 
doubt that, by bringing a little judicious pressure to bear 
upon the right parties —” Quitman explained with a fearfully 
diplomatic look — “ by the aid of a little influence, you could 
get a brigade. We shall need, on a careful calculation, fifty 
thousand men, with which we ought to overrun the whole 
country, garrison every State capital, and take every con¬ 
siderable city. . . . ” Burke had to decline this opportunity 
to the other’s real — if only momentary — disappointment. 
But they shook hands heartily and said their good-bys with 
not a little feeling on both sides; and the next Nat heard, 
the general had given up all idea of war and conquest, beaten 
his sword into a ploughshare, and settled down to the pursuit 
of law, and — intermittently — politics in “fair Natchez” 
where he never ceased to be popular and beloved. He had 
a stormy time of it afterwards — for those were stormy days 
— as governor of the State, and member of Congress; Burke 
used to read his speeches, his protests, his “open letters” 
in the papers, and smile over their characteristic ardor, 
and the well-remembered periods. The last time I saw him 
was in Washington about a year before the War, when he 
looked badly and talked in a rather bitter and gloomy strain 
about the ingratitude of republics — never having got any 

510 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 511 


nearer the highest awards than an unsuccessful candidacy 
for the vice-presidential nomination! But he brightened 
presently, and spoke with all his old warmth of a meeting of 
the veterans of his old Palmetto Regiment ("my gallant 
South Carolinians”) which he had been invited to visit 
and address; he was even then a very sick man and died 
only a few months later. 

Our young men now continued their northward journey, 
missing the late stir and companionship, yet maybe not 
entirely sorry to have a little less notice and more quiet. 
Gradually the officers and semi-military followers of the army 
with whom they had been travelling all this time, reached 
their homes, disappeared from the boat and were replaced 
by other passengers. The curiosity to look upon war heroes 
waned; other news than that from Mexico began to occupy 
the newspapers and fill men’s mouths. There were rumors 
that gold had been discovered in California; emigration to 
Oregon, buffaloes, Indians, the Great American Desert — 
our campaigns were already stale beside these topics. At 
one small town on the levee we saw a Mormon encampment, 
tents, live stock, and covered wagons drawn together in a 
surly isolation, bound for that well-nigh illimitable West; 
we saw them and remarked with irreverent wonder on the 
extremely bad taste in female looks manifested by the fol¬ 
lowers of the prophet. And, among the adventures of this 
not at all adventurous trip, Colonel Burke will always recall 
having fallen in with a voluble, confiding youth, by name 
Decatur P. Gage, a clerk in the office of Messrs. Fielding & 
Hall, Attorneys of St. Louis, whither he was returning after 
having been sent out to collect information about a case 
coming up for a new hearing on appeal before the Circuit 
Court next spring. This was Mr. Gage’s first important 
work for the firm; and, finding out that Burke was a lawyer, 
he forthwith entertained the colonel with an extraordinarily 
long-winded account in minute detail of the whole thing: 
all about a negro who had been brought by his master from 
Virginia into the free territory of Missouri fifteen years 
before, and had been married and had children, and been 
left as a legacy wife, children, and all, and about whom it 
appeared there was now a grave dispute. “The nigger’s 
worthless,” said young Gage, in response to a question; “but 


512 


NATHAN BURKE 


that isn’t the point, you knoW. Point is, is he free? If we 
get a judgment on the ground of technical false imprison¬ 
ment ever since he’s been in the free State — under the Com¬ 
promise that ought to emancipate him, you know — why, 
then we — I mean, he could bring suit against the estate for 
his wages all that while. There’d be something in it, you 
see, or old man Fielding wouldn’t have taken it up. I — I 
mean, you know,” he added in dire confusion; “I mean 
Scott’s got a case, or our people wouldn’t have acted for him. 
That’s the nigger’s name — Dred Scott.” 

This young gentleman left us at St. Louis, where we arrived 
at such an outrageously early hour, that Burke, who allowed 
himself some indulgences after his recent hardships on the 
march, was still in bed; and he was snoring soundly when 
Sharpless, who was always a much earlier bird, owing perhaps 
to the distressingly irregular habits of his profession, and 
who had got up in the express purpose of seeing the place, 
came knocking at the stateroom door. “Burke! Nathan! 
Hi, there! I say, wake up!” cried Jim, and kept up a pro¬ 
digious shouting. 

“Hungh? Ungh? What’s the matter?” says the gallant 
officer, drowsily; and he lumbered out of bed, and unlocked 
the door, still half asleep. 

“Where’s your watch and money? Are you sure you’ve 
got ’em?” said Jim, grinning inexplicably after this insane 
question. 

“Hungh? Why, of course. There they are in my waist¬ 
coat under the pillow. What’s up? Boat on fire?” 

“No, oh, no — we’re tied up safe and sound at the landing. 
It’s St. Louis, you know. And, Nathan,” said Sharpless, 
solemnly, sitting down on the foot of the bed in a very 
deliberate and impressive manner, “Nathan, some of us 
have gone ashore already. I saw ’em scurrying down the 
gang-plank with their carpet-bags. They made for the 
shore, magno telluris amove ! — and got into waiting chariots 

hacks in the vulgar tongue — and were whirled from my 
vision! Who knows where they’ve gone, or what has be¬ 
come of them?” 

“Well, what of it? What under the sun are you talking 
about?” said Burke in bewilderment. “ We don’t all have to 
get off the boat, do we? ” 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 513 


“Why, no, certainly not. That’s the reason I was so 
interested in these pilgrims. They didn’t merely get off 
the boat; they left — skipped — lit out — vamosed — 
stood not on the order of their going. They didn’t see me, 
and I — I made no effort to be seen. I said to the genial 
sprite that dispenses refreshment to the thirsty, ‘Bar- 
keep, seems to me those three men are in a kind of a hurry.’ 
He grinned frightfully and answered, ‘Yes, sir, them kind 
’most always leaves in a hurry.’ And all his attendant 
afrits in the white jackets laughed in chorus: ‘Yah-yah- 
yah! Yessah, boss, dey sho’ly does. Yah-yah-yah!’ 
‘One of ’em,’ says I, then, ‘is that three-card-monte man, 
— the old fellow with the gray hair, I 'mean. And that 
youngest one is his partner — “capper,” I understand to be 
the classic term — but who is the other?’ None of them 
would acknowledge to knowing anything about him, except 
that they had seen him in company with Canada Charlie 
a good deal the last few days. And at last one said: ‘ Why, 
boss, didn’t he get on with you-all at N’Orleans? Ain’t 
that the same young feller that’s been on sence this hyer 
boat done started?’ And, lo, Nathan, I knew who it was 
all the time, but kept my mouth shut, because —” 

“Was it really George?” Burke asked, wide enough awake 
now. “Are you sure?” 

Jim nodded. “I suppose Canada Charlie has taken him 
into partnership — it looked like it. They all got into the 
same carriage, and were plainly in company. I went back 
to George’s room. It’s all cleaned out. He’s gone for good.” 

“The boat lays up here for the day,” said Burke; “we 
may run across him in the town.” 

“Not likely. What would you do, anyhow? ” 

“Why, I’d try and persuade him to come along home and 
see his mother. Honestly, though, you can’t blame him 
much for not wanting to face the people at home; even 
George must see that everybody don’t approve of him. Oh, 
well!” ejaculated Burke, philosophically; “I guess we’re 
out of it, anyhow, Jim. We did our best for him. I’m going 
back to bed and get some more sleep.” 

When they went ashore after breakfast, some three or 
four hours later, the two friends did indeed keep a sort of 
lookout for George as they walked about; but, as they had 

2 L 


514 


NATHAN BURKE 


expected, the young man was nowhere to be found; nor did 
they even catch sight of his companions, although they 
visited some of the best-known saloons and gambling dens 
with which the place was so plentifully provided. St. Louis, 
even at that date, was a big, busy city; it would have been 
an easy matter for George to avoid them, and their search 
was more or less half-hearted and perfunctory. To tell the 
truth, after George’s recent vicissitudes, his present associa¬ 
tion did not seem to either of them particularly disgraceful 
or distressing; it was but another variety of step in that 
Rogues’ March upon which he had entered years ago. 
Canada Charlie had grown gray in this trade without getting 
into the Penitentiary— “and old Mr. Marsh always used 
to say that George would keep out of that , anyhow,” said Nat, 
with a laugh. There is a well-defined point in every scoun¬ 
drel’s career when people cease to be hopeful or even desirous 
of reforming him; they will thank the kind Fates merely to 
keep scandal about him hushed up! “I hope at least he 
will write his family and get up some story they can believe, 
or pretend to believe,” Burke thought, wondering if news 
of their return had reached the town yet. The papers would 
have barely kept pace with us; and such were the hazards 
and delays of the road in those days, that no one could ap¬ 
point with any certainty a time for his arrival or departure; 
it was possible that our letters, written weeks before from 
Mexico, might not yet have been received. 

Not that Colonel Burke expected his fellow-townsmen 
to turn out and greet him with drums, cannon, and banners; 
he had done nothing to deserve especial notice, and, besides, 
had had quite enough of that species of welcome in General 
Quitman’s company, and was well pleased with his present 
comfortable obscurity. Yet I think he spent some idle 
moments picturing the pleasant surprise and interest of his 
friends when he should once more show his tanned face 
among them on the familiar streets after all these hundreds 
of miles and days. It was nearly two years; a great deal 
may happen in that time — a great deal had happened. He 
felt much more than two years older, and, in fact, used to 
glance into the glass with a little anxiety nowadays, as he 
shaved himself of a morning, at the lines wearing deeper 
around his eyes and mouth, at the widening streaks of gray 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 515 


on his temples. We are assured that it is a man’s privilege 
to be homely; and I suppose if he looks old and wrinkled 
into the bargain, it should cause him no distress. But poor 
Nat thought that he had never laid eyes on such a scare¬ 
crow as he had become; nor could all the magnificent new 
neckties, studs, fancy waistcoats, and what-not, which he 
feverishly purchased of the Cincinnati haberdasher at the 
next stopping place, improve him. Why was Mr. Burke 
in such a state of mind about his looks, to which — I freely 
confess — he had never given a thought before? And why, 
as they neared the journey’s end, and the days went by with 
a maddening slowness, was he irritable, and impatient, and 
uproariously good-natured, and morose, and meditative by 
turns? If you can find among your acquaintance some young 
man who has been two years separated from his sweetheart 
— she is, of course, the most beautiful and fascinating girl 
on earth — and feels, for certain reasons, a little dubious 
about his reception, and never has been too sure of her at 
any time, and means to insist on her marrying him at once 
and put an end to his torments — I say, if you can find such 
a young man, ask him what ailed Nat Burke, and he may 
be able to tell you. 

If Sharpless suffered from these alternations of temper 
in his friend, he charitably refrained from resenting them; 
he was quite acute enough to perceive their cause, and whether 
the spectacle touched or annoyed or only amused him, Jim’s 
unlimited fund of sympathy and humanity kept him from 
betraying it. He himself intended stopping over a few days 
in Cincinnati, to see his publisher, or on some like business, 
and as Burke felt and plainly showed that he would as cheer¬ 
fully spend a week upon the rack as in this particular city 
at the present time, they had to part company. In the dawn 
of a cold December day, Nat got up and took the train for 
home — an ordinary proceeding enough to modern notions, 
but something of an experience in those days, when the rail¬ 
road was only partly built, and we had not yet ceased to 
marvel at the hair-raising speed an engine and train of cars 
could attain — fully twenty-five miles an hour, it was asserted. 
This road was one of the changes wrought in Burke’s absence, 
and as it was not nearly completed, he must make the latter 
half of the journey by stage or horseback, as usual. It would 


516 


NATHAN BURKE 


take him two days to cover the hundred and twenty miles 

— two days yet before he could see Her, malediction! Jim 
went along to the station to see him away; they were both 
a little depressed for some reason, Burke, who ought by 
rights to have been radiantly expectant, was very likely 
in one of his black moods, and the other may have been 
thinking with regret and longing of his own broken hopes. 
He was not much given to talking about himself, and, apart 
from his letter, had scarcely mentioned his rebuff. “You 
ought to ask her again,” Burke once counselled him; “you 
took her by surprise, and maybe she didn’t really know her 
own mind. Why, Francie couldn’t help caring for you!” 
But Sharpless only shook his head with a rather twisted 
smile. “No, I’ve done. She as good as told me there was 
somebody else, you know.” He had not been particularly 
enthusiastic or impatient about getting home, and several 
times talked restlessly of going to New York or Boston, 
whence he had had flattering offers. 

Mr. Burke, then, pressed on alone with all possible expe¬ 
dition, which is not saying much, in spite of the new style 
of travel, as the stage roads were in a very bad state at this 
season of the year. And, although he had laid aside every 
kind of military dress, he found himself with his battered old 
baggage whereon the U.S.A. stamp was still plainly discern¬ 
ible, a good deal stared at by his fellow-passengers, who 
speedily finding out whence he came, displayed a kind but 
very searching interest as to his rank, age, pay, and expe¬ 
riences; and were profoundly amazed to hear that it some¬ 
times rained in Mexico, and sometimes turned freezing cold, 
and that the country was neither one vast Sahara nor a jungle 
of palms and tropic fruits inhabited by every bird, beast, and 
reptile in creation like the island of the Swiss Family Robin¬ 
son. By the time he had answered all the queries: no, he 
didn’t know General Taylor — yes, he had met General 
Scott — no, he hadn’t had the yellow fever — yes, he could 
speak Spanish — no, the natives were not black like negroes 

— yes, he had been in a battle — no, he couldn’t remember 
how he felt exactly, but he didn’t want to run away — yes, 
he had been wounded once — no, he had never happened to 
run across a private named Jake Brown — and so on and on 
endlessly, Nat began to weary of the theme; and accordingly 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 517 


decided to make the last lap of the road on horseback, which 
he did, arriving in the town, a solitary traveller in the manner 
of Mr. G. P. R. James’s heroes, the afternoon of the day 
before New Year’s, 1848. 

Dusk was falling and lights were beginning to stream out 
from the shops and houses and from the street lamps at the 
corners. There was snow underfoot; farmers’ sleighs and 
bob-sleds were hitched along the curb. When a door here 
or there was opened, grand odors of frying ham and coffee 
saluted the wayfarer. It was not a pretty nor a picturesque 
scene; but the young man surveyed it with a great warming 
of the heart. Thank God, he thought, half smiling yet in 
real relief, no more women and babies crouching in the dust, 
no more beggars hideous with disease and deformity, no 
more adobe walls and tumble-down palaces gaudily or som¬ 
brely decaying like Tadmor in the wilderness! Here was 
peace, decency, freedom. A girl with a red shawl over her 
head ran out of a side door, and waited shivering and shrug¬ 
ging, with eyes fixed on some point a square off whence the 
sound of a loud, clear, penetrating whistle approached in 
company with a man’s step on the plank sidewalk. Journeys 
end in lovers’ meeting! Nat went on, coloring and smiling 
foolishly at his own thoughts. 

He chose the quietest of the streets in a fit of shyness, and 
got to the hotel without being challenged or recognized. 
The clerk was a stranger, and glanced indifferently at 
“N. Burke” in the register. He was, moreover, very busy 
with a large catering order which the establishment must 
get ready to be sent out the next day, as he condescended to 
explain to several other guests newly arrived and waiting 
patiently about; Nathan was quite unnoticed in the bustle. 
He went upstairs to the room which they presently found 
time to assign him, and made an elaborate toilette, trying 
two or three of the new cravats hurriedly and nervously, 
at last pausing in the very act of selecting another — black, 
miraculously figured with trefoils or shamrocks in dull silk 
on a shining satin ground — and looking at himself in the 
mirror with an angry laugh. He threw the thing aside, 
and got into the rest of his clothes without looking again, 
finding his hand mechanically missing and fumbling for the 
hilt of his sword, and his belt and pistol; there they lay in 


518 


NATHAN BURKE 


their black oil-cloth cases alongside his valise; the warrior 
was returned! He put carefully into his pocket a purple 
morocco case enshrining a chain and locket of filigree silver 
set with turquoise — Mary was one of those black-haired 
and white-skinned beauties to whom blue was ravishingly 
becoming; she looked pretty in anything, for that matter, 
the lover thought fondly, remembering with pride the dainty 
distinction of her walk, her dress, her little head with the 
shining, rich braids. As he was leaving the hotel office, a 
boy ran after him: “Supper’s at six, sir, I was to ask would 
you be here?” “Why — ah — I don’t know. No, I don’t 
believe I shall,” Burke said, hesitating; and bestowed on the 
lad — it was the Boots, I think — a tip the size of which 
evidently astonished that functionary even more than it 
delighted him. 

Mr. Burke hurried along at a slightly less speed than if he 
had been running to a fire until he was within a block of the 
house when he, inconsistently enough, slackened to a very 
slow walk — a dawdle, in fact! She could hardly be expect¬ 
ing him — not at this precise moment, anyhow; his appear¬ 
ance might be too sudden, a sort of shock. It was incon¬ 
siderate — he ought to have sent a note — why hadn’t he 
sent a note? To be sure he might do that yet; but to turn 
back now, after all this preparation, was beyond him. He 
could only force himself to walk slowly up the other side of 
the street, and stand a minute with his heart thumping in a 
ridiculous fashion against the morocco leather case and 
Mary’s last letter lying together in his breast pocket. There 
was a light in her window — in all the windows; the house 
looked brighter than he ever remembered seeing it. On 
the front porch there stood some objects which he presently 
recognized to be a table and folding chairs and trestles, the 
furniture of some one of Mrs. Sharpless’s sewing-circles, 
or Sunday-school classes, probably. It looked so familiar 
he might have gone away but yesterday. Why was he 
standing there in the cold and snow staring at those lighted 
windows? He wanted to collect himself, wondering at his 
own excitement; he was reminded, unpleasantly and inap¬ 
propriately, of Rawdon Crawley’s home-coming — the book 
was just out that year, and Nathan had bought a copy of it 
in New Orleans and read it on the boat coming up. 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 519 


The maid of all work, coming to the door at his knock, 
was new and did not know him. Miss Sharpless had gone 
out, she said, looking the stranger over with interest. 

“Out?” echoed poor Nat — he had never thought of that 
most natural chance, and was grievously disappointed. Yet 
why shouldn’t she be out? She could not be expected to stay 
in the house for days, merely because he had said he would 
be home somewhere about the first of the year. He ought 
to have written a note, he told himself again in vexation. 

“She’s gone out sleigh-riding, sir,” the servant volunteered 
with some excitement and subdued eagerness; she was a 
comely, fresh-faced young country-girl. “ She said before 
she went that she knew it wasn’t usual at this time, but she’s 
awfully tired, and she thought maybe the air would do her 
good, and she’d be sorry to miss anybody, but she couldn’t 
help it. And if there’s anything you want to leave for her, 
sir, of course it’ll be perfectly safe.” 

Burke heard the chatter uncomprehendingly, without 
indeed paying much heed to it. For him the main fact 
was that he must wait another while yet before seeing Mary. 
He was about to ask for her mother, when he heard that lady’s 
voice from within, inquiring: — 

“ Is that the man ’with the meringues? Tell him to go around 
to the back door, Jennie. They ought to be kept cool. I 
think the wash-house will be the best place —” She ap¬ 
peared in the parlor door, one arm full of a cascading mass 
of satin, gauze, ribbons, white artificial flowers of some kind, 
taking a pin out of her mouth as she spoke. “Jennie, you 
can take this up and lay it on Miss Mary’s bed. I think 
I’ve got it fixed right now. I’ll attend to the meringues. 
Are you the man from —” 

“It’s I, Mrs. Sharpless,” said Burke, a little awkwardly 
and nervously, afraid of startling her; he stepped into the 
light, taking off his hat; “it’s I — Na —” 

She stopped short, staring almost wildly; she turned quite 
pale and put out a hand to steady herself against the door¬ 
jamb, trembling. The satin and lace garment slid rustling 
to the floor, from which Jennie barely rescued it. “Na¬ 
than — Nathan Burke!” gasped Mrs. Sharpless, shrilly; 
“what do you want? How did you get here ?” 

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sharpless, I didn’t mean to scare 


520 


NATHAN BURKE 


you,” said the young fellow, much distressed. “I ought to 
have sent word, of course, but I — I felt as if I couldn't wait. 
I just got home to-day. Didn't you know I would get home 
about this time? I thought surely Mary would have got 
one of my letters — didn't she?” 

“ Mary get your letters? Mary? ” repeated Mrs. Sharpless. 
“Have you been writing to her? Why, you can’t have — 
what do you mean to do? What are you here for?” 

“Why, where else would I go the first thing?” said Nat, 
in his steadiest voice, trying to reassure her, although he was 
inwardly a little concerned; Mrs. Sharpless was ordinarily 
a sensible and cool-headed woman; even if taken by surprise, 
she would not have gone into the hysterics on which she 
seemed to be bordering at the moment. She was evidently 
too startled by his sudden return to be pleased at seeing him. 
“I was thoughtless — I ought to have let you know. But 
then I supposed you’d be expecting me almost any day now, 
you see. I'll never forgive myself for giving you this shock, 
though.” 

She gazed up at him blankly, yet with a look in her face 
as of straining to understand, like one conscious of hearing 
important news but in an unknown tongue. She did not 
take, nor even see, the young man's outstretched hand. 
“Where’s Jim?” she said abruptly. “Is he with you? 
Didn't he come, too?” 

“He’s well — he's all right—” Burke said quickly, 
thinking he understood at last, and anxious to relieve the 
mother's heart; “he came with me as far as Cincinnati, 
and I left him there. He’ll be here inside the week. Jim’s 
all right, safe and sound, and sent his love to everybody. 
Don't be worried about him.” 

“Did Jim write, too?” 

“Why, yes, I suppose so. Yes, I’m sure he did. The 
letters haven’t come?” 

“Haven't you got any letters from us?” asked Mrs. Sharp¬ 
less in a strange voice; “haven't you — no, wait a minute, 
Nathan — Colonel Burke, I mean — don’t answer yet, I 
—I want to talk to you —” she commanded herself with a 
visible effort, and turned to the staring servant-girl. “Jen¬ 
nie, go upstairs. Take Miss Mary's dress upstairs, and then 
you can go back to the kitchen. The gentleman wants to see 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 521 


me on business. He wants to see me, ” she interpolated hur¬ 
riedly; “you mustn’t disturb Mr. Sharpless on any account. 
Will you come in here, Mr. Burke?” 

He followed her, puzzled and troubled, into the well-known 
little parlor, which now itself looked somfehow strange. 
Mary’s piano had been pushed back into a corner, and almost 
all the other furniture was gone; but side by side with this 
bareness the room wore a certain air of festivity; garlands 
of evergreen trimmed the curtains, and there were fresh 
white wax candles in the old girandoles on the mantel-shelf. 
The minister’s wife did not ask him to sit down; she seemed 
to have forgotten all the everyday civilities, even when she 
had after a fashion regained her composure. 

“I don’t see what you wanted to come here for, Nat — 
Mr. Burke, I mean,” she began with a kind of uncertain 
severity; “I can’t understand it — unless it is that you 
don’t know, and that’s impossible. Why, you must have 
known — of course not the exact day, but I should have 
thought you wouldn’t want to come, anyhow. It can’t be 
that you —?” her voice trailed off into a questioning silence; 
she looked at him with something like fright in her eyes. 

“I came to see Mary,” said Burke, quite calmly, in spite 
of a wretched foreboding; “I do not know of any reason why 
I should not come to see her.” 

“But she wrote you — I know she wrote you. That is, 
she said she was going to. She must have written — why, 
she had to—’’cried Mrs. Sharpless. “I can’t understand 
it!” 

“Nor I,” said Burke, roused and peremptory. “What is 
all this about? Mary wrote me, as you say. I have her 
letter here. There is nothing in it to keep me from coming 
here, if that is what you mean. If she wanted to break with 
me, she hasn’t said so —” 

“Nathan!” Mrs. Sharpless almost screamed, “ nothing! 
Oh, I knew you didn’t know — I felt it from the first. You 
haven’t got her letter, or else —” she flung out her hands with 
a despairing gesture. “Oh, I don’t know how it’s all hap¬ 
pened. You ought to have known long ago. I thought 
you had been told. Nathan, Mary’s going to be married.” 

“Married? When?” 

“It’s to-morrow — the wedding’s to-morrow. She’s go- 


522 


NATHAN BURKE 


ing to be married to Leonard Andrews. They’ve been 
engaged since last August.” 

She paused, perhaps expecting a burst of questions, re¬ 
proaches, anger, resentment. But Burke, after his first 
exclamation, stood silent. I do not think that he was 
stunned or overwhelmed. He was conscious only of a labo¬ 
rious effort to adjust his mind to the facts. 

“Mary wrote to you in the summer, breaking off your 
engagement,” Mrs. Sharpless began again, seemingly a little 
taken aback by his silence; “I know she wrote — she said 
so.” 

“She said so?” Nathan repeated. “I never got any such 
letter from her, Mrs. Sharpless.” 

“Well, Mary couldn’t help its being lost, or going astray 
somehow — nobody could help that,” said the mother, 
defensively; “Mary acted perfectly honorably with you, 
Colonel Burke, however you acted towards her.” 

“What is that you say to me?” said Nat. 

Mrs. Sharpless flinched a little before his steady eyes, 
yet fronted him with spirit; the color rose in her delicate, 
aging face. “You couldn’t expect any self-respecting girl 
to marry you after — after that story — you know very well 
what I mean — after that got to be known, Colonel Burke.” 

“Not if she believed it,” Burke said. “I shouldn’t want 
any woman to marry me believing a thing like that about 
me. I should want her to love me.” 

“Nathan, Mary did care for you — she did —” 

“If she had, she would have trusted me a little, I think,” 
said Burke. “Could anyone have made me believe any¬ 
thing against her?” 

“But that would be different — and you oughtn’t to talk 
that way about Mary,” said Mrs. Sharpless, indignantly; 
“ as if Mary would —- would do anything wrong! It’s shame¬ 
ful to say things like that. How could she help believing 
it? You never denied it. If it wasn’t true, why didn’t 
you say so? Why didn’t you prove it wasn’t true?” 

“You forget that I didn’t know Mary accused me,” said 
Nathan; “one cannot prove or disprove such a story. You 
know that in your heart, Mrs. Sharpless, and so does Mary, 
and so does everybody that hears it. If you choose to be¬ 
lieve it, you will believe it — that’s all. I might say that I 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 523 


have the name of an honest and decent man — that goes for 
nothing! I might say that if the story were true, I would 
not have the effrontery to be here now, in your house — 
that goes for nothing, too! As you say, I knew very well 
what people here were reporting about me — Jim told me 
when he came down to Mexico a year ago; I might deny 
it or tell my side, but it would come to the same old ques¬ 
tion in the end — do you believe me, or don’t you believe 
me? I thought at least the woman who was to be my wife 
would stand up for me. She couldn’t, it seems; and that 
was perhaps natural —” 

“Oh, it’s easy for you to talk, and make out a good case,” 
said Mrs. Sharpless, with an extraordinary mixture of doubt, 
worry, regret, uneasiness, and genuine distress showing in her 
face. “You’re a lawyer, and they always know how to talk 
and argue. And, anyhow, it’s not my doing, Nathan, I don’t 
know what you want to talk this way to me for. I never 
wanted to believe anything against you — nobody could 
want to think that horrid thing true, you know — I don’t 
see how you can say that. But Mary — Mary’s always 
had her own way ever since she was a little girl, and I — I — 
why, she couldn’t help breaking off the engagement. If you 
could have heard how everybody talked — not Leonard, 
you know,” she interrupted herself quickly; “Leonard’s 
never said a word, though he was coming here all the time, 
and had plenty of chances, but he — he hadn’t asked Mary 
then, and I suppose he thought it wouldn’t be honorable to 
talk about you. It’s terrible you didn’t get her letter — that 
w T ould have saved you coming here just at this time. I’m 
so sorry it happened this way — it makes it so hard for you 
— ” and here Mrs: Sharpless, appearing by some inexpli¬ 
cable feminine process to have actually wrought herself into 
some kind of sympathy for the young man, either as a dis¬ 
carded lover, or a victim of scandal, or both, broke into little 
sobs, carefully subdued, even in her excitement, for fear 
of disturbing the reverend gentleman in the study across 
the hall. It was as if she were divided between maternal 
loyalty, and an agonizing suspicion that somebody — not 
Burke alone — had done something wrong; a note of defence 
and explanation sounded through her words. The spectacle 
of her tears would have moved him unbearably at any other 


524 


NATHAN BURKE 


time; but just now Nat was pardonably, I think, if selfishly, 
absorbed in his own affair, and something in her speech had 
caught his attention. 

“Andrews was coming here all the time, was he?” he asked. 

“Why, yes — Mary couldn’t help it, you know. Young 
men have always come to see her; she’s so attractive. And 
he knew she was engaged; Mary never tried to hide that. 
I’m sure he never said a word to her— proposed, you know 

— till last August, and then Mary wrote to you right away,” 
said poor Mrs. Sharpless, innocently, in the eagerness of her 
justification. “ I know Leonard never mentioned your name 

— nor that story, nor anything. He wouldn’t take advan¬ 
tage of such a thing. Leonard’s very honorable. They did 
have a little tiff once. I know when it happened, in the fall 
sometime, because he didn’t come to the house for two or 
three days. But they made it up, and I’m sure it wasn’t 
about you.” 

Nathan thought of the letter in his pocket, with its graceful 
endearments. These dates fitted only too well. Her 
“hero” indeed! And I suppose his expression must have 
astonished and rather frightened Mrs. Sharpless, for he al¬ 
most laughed aloud in the suddenness of his illumination. 

The mother’s eyes searched his face; then all at once, she 
burst out vehemently; “Nathan, it’s not so! It’s not so, what 
you’re thinking. Have you seen anybody? You have been 
talking to somebody. I know people were mean enough to 
£ay that. But it’s not so; Mary never did a thing like that. 
Keep you dangling till she was sure of Leonard — oh, I 
know what people said! Who told you? They’re all jeal¬ 
ous of Mary. You haven’t any right to believe that about 
her. It’s not so!” 

“What isn’t so? What are you talking about?” said 
Burke, a little lamely, startled at the justice of her intuition. 
But before she could answer, Comedy intervened trivially 
upon the trivial Tragedy of this interview; the servant came 
knocking at the door, and partly opening it, in a highly 
natural curiosity. The meringue man had arrived; would 
Mrs. Sharpless please come? He wanted her to sign for 
them — 

“Oh, mercy!” said the poor lady, in desperation. She 
dabbled the tears away hastily. “Can’t he wait? Can’t 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 525 


you sign — there ought to be five dozen of them. Oh, well, 
ril go then— ” 

She went away, leaving Mr. Burke to meditate upon 
the recent enlightenment; and it was hardly a pleasant 
five minutes that the young man spent alone with his 
anger, his jealousy, his disappointed passion, his sorely 
mortified vanity. That Mary should have thrown him over 
for a miserable bit of gossip was sufficiently bitter, but 
Nathan had generosity enough to allow that it was natural — 
it was what nine women out of ten would have done in her 
place, helpless, surrounded and worked upon by adverse opin¬ 
ion and spiteful or careless talk. If she had cared for him a 
little more — but it was cruelly plain to him now that she had 
never cared for him at all; he had had his moments of doubt¬ 
ing her before, but that did not make the truth any more 
palatable when it was finally forced upon him. He had never 
been anything but a convenience with his attentions, his 
gifts, his handy devotion. Mary had had the like from some 
man all her life; it pleased her, it flattered her, she liked it; 
better he, Nathan Burke, than nobody. And, when the 
moment came, what a foil, what a goad, what a coquette’s 
tool to egg on some other man ! He ground his teeth on the 
thought. She had made Leonard fast without letting Burke 
go — admirable prudence and calculation! But what would 
she have done to get rid of me, thought Nat, with gruesome 
irony, if this scandal hadn’t fortunately come up? It would 
have taxed even Mary’s resources to have manufactured an 
excuse for dismissing him; but that she would have done it 
he did not doubt. The reflection that she might even have 
been capable of marrying him in case no better match pre¬ 
sented, was as acid a morsel as the rest. For, alas, my 
friends, all poor Nathan’s talk of his own unworthiness was, 
like that of other lovers, an unconscious sham, a piece of 
depreciation which you and I will utter of ourselves, but can¬ 
not stomach from somebody else; and, in his heart of hearts, 
I dare say Burke thought he was good enough for anybody. 
He was pacing up and down the narrow room, when the 
sound of sleigh-bells and of the vehicle drawing up at the door 
started him from his gloomy reviewing; and Mrs. Sharpless 
came hurrying back at the instant. “ It’s they — it’s Mary 
— they’ve come back, you know. You — you’d better 


526 


NATHAN BURKE 


go, hadn’t you, Nathan? You don’t want to stay now , do 
you ? You can go out the back way if you hurry,” she said, 
breathlessly appealing. 

Burke almost smiled. He saw himself stealing out the 
back way like the villain or the guilty lover in a melodrama — 
he, who had done nothing! I believe there never was a crisis, 
no matter how supremely serious, that lacked some element 
of the grotesque. 

“I said before that I knew of no reason why I shouldn’t be 
here, and I don’t now,” he said. 

“You’re not going to do anything, Nathan?” 

“Do I look as if I meant violence?” inquired Burke; “I 
assure you I won’t do any harm to anybody.” 

She looked at him, hesitating; and the young man’s heart 
smote him at sight of the distress in her face. For shame, 
Nat Burke, he thought remorsefully, what has this poor 
mother done to you? None of this is her fault; and what 
kind of a mother would she be not to stand by her daughter, 
and put the best front on it she can? 

“Don’t be worried, Mrs. Sharpless,” he said gently; “I 
can’t run away, you know. I don’t mean to do anything, as 
you say. I should be the last man in the world to stand be¬ 
tween Mary and her happiness. I only want to speak to her; 
and you yourself know that I am in no position to find fault 
with or reproach her.” 

She looked at him again, the tears rising in her eyes, and 
turned towards the door. They heard Mary’s step on the 
porch, her hand on the latch — Burke thought he would 
have recognized the sound of her movements in a thousand. 
She was calling a gay good-by, and Andrews’s voice answered 
her from the street. Mrs. Sharpless came back impulsively, 
and laid her hand on Burke’s arm; her tears dropped and 
glistened on his coat sleeve. “Nathan,” she whispered 
chokingly, “I never believed that story — I can’t believe it. 
I don’t care what anybody says — there! ” She went quickly 
out into the hall. “Go in there, Mary. There’s somebody 
to see you! ” and she went on upstairs, treading more 
heavily than she used; and Mary came into the room. 

She stood still at sight of him, her hands at her throat in the 
act of loosening her bright hood and scarf and thick white furs. 
Little silky strands of black hair had been blown across her 


COLONEL BURKE GETS HIS DISCHARGE 527 


forehead, and she put them back mechanically, staring. She 
did not cry out or turn pale as her mother had done; perhaps 
Mary was much better prepared for such a meeting. Her 
clear and deep gray eyes met Burke’s without faltering. 
Why should they? What had she to be ashamed of? 

“Colonel Burke?” she said, after a moment, with a little 
rising inflection; and finished removing her wraps. 

“I understand my letters haven’t got here yet. I apolo¬ 
gized to your mother for coming upon her so suddenly, but of 
course I supposed you would be looking for me,” said Burke, 
striving unsuccessfully for an equal self-command. 

She made a slight movement with her head and hands 
which might have meant assent, and sat down. To this hour 
Burke does not know whether she had received the letters or 
not. He went on: “It seems that other letters must have 
miscarried, for I — I didn’t know that you — that I — that 
we weren’t engaged any longer. I never heard from you, 
breaking everything off.” 

“After what has been reported about you, Colonel Burke,” 
said Mary, folding her veil neatly and raising her calm eyes 
to his, “I am surprised you could have supposed yourself 
engaged to me any longer. I don’t see that there was any 
necessity for me to write you, or how you could have expected 
me to say anything to you about it. You must have known 
that acting that way — doing what you did — would put an 
end to everything between us, if it ever was known. And of 
course it had to be known — those things are always found 
out. I am very much surprised that you came here at all.” 

She sat there, cool, sweet-faced, passionless, and delivered 
this little speech in a clear and level voice, assuming his guilt, 
and putting him in the wrong with a kind of serene assurance 
and finality. Burke looked at her — and all the affection, 
all the jealousy, all even of the helpless resentment within 
him, fell down and died without a struggle. What had he 
been worshipping all this while? Mary Sharpless, or a bright 
youthful vision she had some way embodied? To find her no 
angel, but a selfish and calculating woman, hurt him only in 
that it most ruthlessly forced him to destroy that young illu¬ 
sion; himself he grasped the pillars of his house of dreams, 
and shook it down. The selfishness that reared it was per¬ 
haps not so ugly as Mary’s, yet of the same stuff when all was 


528 


NATHAN BURKE 


said; I think he had been in love with being in love, not with 
Mary Sharpless; and it was Nat Burke’s home and hearth 
and wedded happiness he had pictured so fondly, not hers. 

“This is the end, then,” he said, after a silence; “forgive 
me for coming. I did not know. Good-by.” 

He went toward the door. He had been so short a time in 
the house that the outer cold still clung about his clothes and 
heavy greatcoat. Mary’s eyes followed him with a strange 
expression. Perhaps she had expected, and armed herself 
against, an angry scene of reproaches, protests, denuncia¬ 
tions; his submission seemed to puzzle, almost to annoy her. 
His hand was on the latch when she spoke again — in an 
altered voice, and not nearly so composedly. “I — I — this 
is only the merest justice to myself — and — and others — 
only justice. You must see — you can’t but understand 
that — that -— that —” 

“I do understand,” said Burke, without rancor. Their 
eyes met again; in that last look, both perceived, with a sud¬ 
den chilling of the heart, that something was gone from their 
faces and their lives, and would never come back any more. 
It was Youth. Nathan went out of the house, and closed the 
door. 

Mr. Burke walked slowly back to his hotel, and slowly to 
the bedroom where all his gala clothes were still strewn about 
in disorder. Feeling in his pockets — not for a pistol or a 
vial of poison, O romance-monger, but, tout bonnement, for a 
handkerchief to wipe his nose ! — he encountered the purple 
morocco case. He balanced it in his hand a moment, then 
threw it back into the portmanteau with a sort of laugh, and 
straightway went off and forgot all about it. Years after¬ 
ward the thing turned up in his old army baggage with other 
rubbish in the garret, and was donated for a prize to be 
raffled off at one of the sanitary fairs they used to hold dur¬ 
ing the late war for the benefit of our men in the field! 

His friend the Boots erelong came to the door. “We been 
kinder busy, sir, gittin’ off the things for the weddin’-break¬ 
fast — there’s a weddin’ in town to-morrow,” he said, mop¬ 
ping his tired brow; “supper’s ready. Concluded you’d 
come back, after all, didn’t you?” 


CHAPTER XV 

“ ‘Here’s Sorry Cheer! ’ quoth the Heir o’ Lynne” 

I eelieve it has been remarked elsewhere in the course of 
this history that if Truth,,crushed to earth, will invariably 
rise again, it has still nothing like the tough and enduring 
vitality of a good lie. Not long since, Mr. Burke, sitting in 
his private office, which is separated from the profane vulgar 
by a rich screen or partition of woodwork and ground glass, 
heard, through his door, which happened to be hanging ajar, 
a scrap of conversation between two clients, meeting un¬ 
expectedly without. And said one: “Hello, does Burke 
attend to your legal business too? I didn’t know that.” 

“Yes, oh, yes. Has for years; began with my father.” 

“Fine old gentleman, the old general, isn’t he? Nice old 
fellow!” 

“Yes, and it’s strange they say he was a very wild sort of 
young man — not much good.” 

“Is that so? Drank, hey? Spree’d? I guess a lot of 
’em drank pretty hard in those days.” 

“Well, no, I never heard that. No, it was women that was 
the matter with Burke, father used to say. Finally he ruined 
some poor girl, and it made a terrible talk. She died, and 
Burke had to get out of town; that was when he went off to 
the Mexican War, you know. It seems he was engaged at 
the very time to a nice girl here at home; but, of course, when 
she heard of it, she broke off with him — and the whole thing 
made a man of him. He straightened up after that, and 
never misbehaved again — at least not that anybody ever 
heard of, my father said. You’d never think it to look at him 
now, would you?” And here the aged reprobate behind the 
screen, signalling his presence by a stentorian cough, put an 
end to these reminiscences. After forty years of living with 
it, you might have supposed him habituated to the stigma, 
as the Indian fakir teaches himself to endure all sorts of bodily 
inconvenience, and goes about with one arm grown to his 
2ai 529 


530 


NATHAN BURKE 


side, or a nail through his nose, in great peace of mind; but 
Burke never quite learned their stalwart philosophy; and to 
this day that shameful imputation, old as it is and irremedi¬ 
able, has power to sting him deeply. 

Although the scandal was a year old, and must have been 
pretty well turned over in that time, it got a fresh start with 
Burke’s reappearance, and flourished magnificently. I can 
conceive that nowadays it might not have been so venomous, 
nor have so attracted and, as it were, concentrated the notice 
of the community; but in our small society, where everybody 
knew everybody else’s business,' where not one-fourth so 
much of public and outside interest distracted us as to-day, 
and where the young man had attained a certain prominence, 
the story went the rounds with incredible briskness, and, bad 
enough already, received nobody knows how many unsavory 
additions. The ladies, who were by no means the most back¬ 
ward in spreading it, were obliged in common decency and 
self-respect to pass this hero on the street without recognition, 
to close their virtuous parlors against him, to frown and shake 
their heads, and cast their blushing looks downwards when¬ 
ever his name was mentioned — in public. And although 
the masculine half were, as is generally the case, most sin¬ 
fully tolerant, and out of sympathy, or indifference, or sheer 
perversity continued to associate even with such a moral leper 
as Nat Burke,—who, strange to relate, attended to his 
affairs industriously and appeared to be both upright and 
capable! — there were not a few who, in the presence of 
their womenkind at least, avoided the young man’s company. 
They were married men, fathers of families, of young grow¬ 
ing girls — what would you have? The domestic peace must 
be kept at whatever sacrifice of personal prejudice or opinion. 
I dare say Thomas, Richard, and Henry had their orders. 
And what if Mr. — or General as he was now called, for he got 
the brevet shortly after his return home — Burke, was dined 
by Governor Gwynne, and did receive a vote of commen¬ 
dation from the Legislature, and the gift of a beautiful sword, 
with a hjlt of gold and mother o’ pearl, “appropriately in¬ 
scribed”? Let him get what consolation he could out of his 
military laurels — that didn’t make a respectable man of him, 
Thomas. Nor a fit person to invite to our house, Richard. 
And I don’t care whether you are asked to the banquet and 


“HERE'S SORRY CHEER” 


531 


the presentation or not, Henry, you shan’t go, and appear to 
approve of that man — would you like to have our little Toms, 
Dicks, and Harrys grow up to be like him? 

Burke being, all testimony to the contrary notwithstanding, 
a young fellow of a certain solidity of character and very 
definite aims and standards, supported his ostracism with¬ 
out bravado, I trust, and without taking to strong liquors or 
other reprehensible courses. In truth, Nat was used to lone¬ 
liness, as regarded feminine society at any rate. Few women 
had ever taken any interest in him, and he told himself that 
if they could do without him, he could perfectly well do with¬ 
out them. The grapes were very sour, I suppose. He had 
indeed some champions among them; for, coming out of 
church one day (the hardened libertine actually had the in¬ 
solence to attend service quite frequently!) and passing 
through the crowd of skirts and bonnets as rigorously un¬ 
noticed as if he had owned Prince What’s-his-name’s cloak 
of invisibility, Nat found himself side by side with Miss Clara 
Vardaman — Miss Clara looking quintessential spinsterhood 
in her neat, thick, handsome silks and bugles, her lavender kid 
gloves, her sable muff, the gold eyeglasses on her slender, 
curving nose. “ How do you do, Colonel Burke? Will you 
give me your arm down the steps? They’re quite icy this 
morning,” says Miss Clara, hardily, though with the color 
mounting to her high cheek-bones. Before the shocked 
gaze of every one she knew, her entire little world, she 
walked down the steps of Trinity Church, and along the side¬ 
walk, clinging to his arm and chatting resolutely; and showed 
in doing it — you will pardon me for thinking — a real cour¬ 
age, the courage of a great lady and a kind heart. 

“Bravo, Clara!” said the doctor, when Burke, smiling a 
little in spite of himself, described this incident to him; “she’ll 
have to stand all sorts of pecks and stings from the women for 
that, you know, Nathan — dear angels that they are!” said 
Jack, somewhat cynically; his own love affair had ended as 
unfortunately as Burke’s, if for a less serious cause. “I 
have another loyal friend in — who do you think? ” said Nat, 
cheerfully; “why, Mrs. Slaney, to be sure! She says she 
knows — nobody better — that men will be men, and maybe 
I got tangled up somehow like Slaney did (I always have 
kind of reminded her of Slaney, he was just that sympathetic, 


532 


NATHAN BURKE 


and kind of soft, you know, with women, and awfully free 
with his money, just like I am!) with some girl, but you can’t 
make her believe it was all my fault. They’re plenty of 
sharp, good-looking, brazen hussies around ready to get hold 
of a man like me, and twist him ’round their finger,” said 
Burke, ungratefully imitating Mrs. Slaney’s voice and man¬ 
ner, to Vardaman’s huge amusement. The doctor was one of 
Nathan’s few confidants; he could scarcely have talked to 
Sharpless — all circumstances considered — so openly. 

Jim, arriving the week after his friend, and after the wed¬ 
ding of which he had known nothing, came around to the 
office next day, with a face of great perplexity, distress, and 
confusion. “I can’t say much to you, Nat,” he began 
abruptly; “ I had a kind of uneasy feeling all along. Mother 
and father seem to have counted for nothing — like two dum¬ 
mies. They’re both old, and they’re too — too used to 
Mary, you know, to have any say. Mother feels pretty bad. 
She’s always been very fond of you, and she’s beginning to 
think now that you weren’t treated right; she wanted you to 
come to the house, but, of course, I told her you wouldn’t 
do that — it made her feel very badly. Women don’t un¬ 
derstand somehow; they all seem to think you can knock 
down Humpty Dumpty off the wall and pick him up again as 
whole as ever — spill all the milk and scoop it up again — 
begin just where you left off, and have everything the same 
as it always was! Mother feels as if she and father have been 
partly to blame, but I — I don’t think they could have helped 
it. Mary wouldn’t even put off the wedding when they 
heard there was a possibility of my coming home — her only 
brother! And I never was told anything about it — the 
engagement or anything.” 

“It’s all right, Jim, old fellow, don’t say anything more. 
It’s only what I might have expected — any girl would have 
done the same. You see what everybody — all her friends — 
think of me,” said Burke, not choosing that the brother 
should know any more of the story. And whether Jim sus¬ 
pected anything then or afterwards, I do not know, for we 
have never mentioned the subject and seldom even Mary’s 
name, from that day to this. 

The two had really not much chance to talk in private, 
during these days; for Sharpless was only at home for a short 


“ HERE’S SORRY CHEER ” 


533 


time to see his family and friends and say his good-bys. 
He would be off in a fortnight for St. Louis, Council Bluffs, 
the Overland Trail to Oregon, and the gold diggings. Not 
with any idea of making his fortune — Jim appraised his own 
talents and disposition too justly for that, and no such illu¬ 
sion led him on. A certain restlessness possessed him; it 
had taken him to Mexico; it was taking him to California; 
it took him through later life to known, distant, populous 
cities and equally to all the lost and forgotten corners 
of the world. We never knew when he might burst 
in upon our humdrum hearths, bronzed and leathery, 
late from Alaska, New Zealand, Cape Horn — Heaven 
knows where! They say a rolling stone gathers no moss, 
yet I am sure Sharpless is very tenderly enshrined in the 
hearts of his friends, and particularly of his friends’ young¬ 
sters, upon whom he was forever bestowing all manner of 
outlandish gifts picked up in his wanderings — sea-island¬ 
ers’ feather-cloaks, Egyptian scarabs, Hindoo idols, French 
dolls, miniature tea-sets of Japanese lacquer, Indian bows-and 
arrows — toys which the mothers alternately declared too 
dangerous or too beautiful to be played with. You may see 
them now in the corner-cabinets and bric-a-brac stands of a 
dozen parlors. I have heard the ladies sigh regretfully that 
it was such a pity Mr. Sharpless wouldn’t marry; look how 
fond he was of pretty things and children. He was really 
very domestic, for all he would travel about so much — such 
a pity! He used to make barbarous parodies of the noble 
lines in “Ulysses,” applying them to himself: — 

“ — It little profits that with busy pen, 

Ink, paper, and the ever-needed stamp, 

I mete and dole untruthful words unto 
A set of savage editors 

That horde and sleep and feed and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel — 

There lies the train; the engine puffs her steam; 

There glooms the dark, broad porter of 
The Pullman car — ” 

Jim would chant sonorously, and double up with icono¬ 
clastic laughter. He carried his bachelorhood bravely, and 
if I have sometimes surprised a look of wistfulness or loneli- 


534 


NATHAN BURKE 


ness on his face at sight of some young mother with her baby, 
the child — Good Lord, the grandchild, nowadays\— of an 
acquaintance, it always passed quickly. We gave him a din¬ 
ner, too, and presented him with a handsome gold-mounted 
shaving-set in a travelling-case, upon the occasion of this 
first departure; and all the papers, Whig and Democrat, 
described the ceremonies the next day, in articles a column 
long with many references to “our talented fellow-towns- 
man.” The public had generously forgotten or forgiven his 
heresies; and hardly anybody to-day would understand 
what the term meant as applied to his opinions. 

All this while, in defiance of all the laws of retribution, the 
firm of Burke and Lewis prospered amazingly, undeterred by 
the return of the senior partner with his evil thick upon him. 
Young Lewis, whether he believed the gossip or not, did not 
allow it to disturb his own peace, nor his relations with the 
hero of it. He was a shrewd young fellow, with a good gift 
at estimating men’s characters, as a pleader of no startling 
eloquence perhaps, but forcible, honest, humorous, and ready. 
It was remarked of the firm that one man uniting the special 
and separate qualities of its two members would have been a 
great lawyer; as it was, I suppose they were merely a notably 
strong alliance. . It lasted for nearly thirty years, only dis¬ 
solving when Lewis went on the Bench in 1875. One of the 
first visitors to the office after Burke’s return was his ancient 
patron, Mr. Marsh. Nat, having heard on all sides that old 
George was failing fast, was very feeble, was growing childish, 
and so on, was agreeably surprised when he stumped in, ap¬ 
parently vigorous as ever, with eyes and hearing as keen as in 
the days of their first acquaintance, and with what looked 
like the same shabby tail-coat on his back, and the same 
grease-stains and dabs of tobacco in the creases of his waist¬ 
coat. His manner, however, was much more cordial than 
used to be natural with him, and he presently displayed a 
certain eagerness and volubility and disposition to talk about 
himself, which Burke was obliged to acknowledge inwardly, 
not without reluctance, to be a sign of the creeping years. 

• “I can’t stay very long — that is, I won’t stay very long,” 
he announced, after the greetings were over; “I never did 
like people idling around an office. And then I have business 
of my own to attend to. People think because a man’s 


“ HERE’S SORRY CHEER” 


535 


retired, he hasn't got anything to do. Well, that's a mistake; 
there's something for me to do, anyhow, I take notice, all the 
time. Now, where I board, there's a man setting a new grate 
in the back-parlor mantelpiece — got to tear out the bricks 
and set the grate all over on account of its smoking — and 
I’ve got to go back directly and keep an eye on that job. 
Don’t make any difference how good a workman is, he'll 
bear watching — that’s my principle. It's*an exceptional 
man, anyway, that don’t need a little watching, hey? I 
guess you remember me telling you that when you was keep¬ 
ing the books, hey?” 

“Oh, I don't know, Mr. Marsh,” said Nathan, amused. 
“I remember your telling me that responsibility was good for 
almost everybody, and that people ought to be left to their 
own devices sometimes, anyhow, if only to see what kind of an 
out they made of it.” 

“Well, you see you were always a tolerably steady boy, or 
I wouldn't have talked that way to you. That's what I tell 
Anne. ‘He's always been a steady young fellow,' says I, 
‘and I doubt very much if all these stories we hear about 
him are true — wouldn't wonder if they were cut out of 
whole cloth. But even if they were true, Lord love you,’ 
says I, ‘if every young man that's behaved that way has got 
to go to hell for it, why, it's going to be mighty lonesome in 
heaven!' However,” added the old gentleman, philo¬ 
sophically, “there ain't much use arguing with Anne when 
she's got her back up. You know that. Don’t make much 
odds what I say, she always winds up with, ‘Why, Uncle 
George, Georgie wrote us all about it exactly as it happened. 
He saw it all with his own eyes.' ‘Huh!’ I says, ‘since 
when did George set out to tell the truth, the whole truth, and 
nothing but the truth ? It's been my observation he can lie 
like a missionary. And, anyhow, what did he see ? By damn, 
I'd have liked to been there, and seen it, too! 'Tain't the 
kind of thing that's generally on view,"'said old George, con¬ 
cluding this exposition of his sentiments with a dreadfully 
significant wink and grin. “‘Hm!’ says Anne — you 
know how Anne says ‘Hm!’ Nathan,—and then told 
Francie to go out of the room, because she’d rather she didn’t 
hear how her Uncle George talks ! What's become of George, 
anyhow, do you know ?” 


536 


NATHAN BURKE 


Burke told him all he knew, but the other listened with a 
wandering attention, and before the young man had well 
finished, began to talk. “Got off at St. Louis, hey ? Maybe 
Anne’ll hear from him, then, as long as he’s in this country. 
She hasn’t had any word since you started from Mexico, I 
believe. She made me promise to ask you. I wanted to 
know why she didn’t have you come up to the house and tell 
her all about him yourself, but she nearly went into screech¬ 
ing hysterics at the notion, and Francie begun to cry, and 
there was an infernal howdy-do. Made me pretty mad. 
‘By damn, ma’am,’ I said to her; ‘if Burke’s good enough 
to take care of your son, he’s good enough to have in your 
house. George may be a moral young man, but I ain’t heard 
of his getting any promotion, and a sword from the com¬ 
munity yet. Point of fact, I ain’t heard of his doing any¬ 
thing, except get lost and found, and I take notice nobody’s 
explained those circumstances.’ How was that, Nathan? 
You ought to know.” 

“Why, that’s about all there is to know,” said Burke, and 
gave him an outline of George’s story, omitting to mention, 
however, the society and conditions wherein Lieutenant 
Ducey had recovered his liberty. “No use going into that 
miserable detail,” he thought. 

“Well, maybe it’s so and maybe ’tain’t,” said Mr. Marsh, 
impartially, at the end. “Can’t relie on George. I thought 
likely he’d run away, deserted, you know, when I first heard 
it.' Poor Anne! Pretty hard on a woman, having her only son 
turn out like George — pretty hard. She has a kind of an idea 
he ain’t any good, but she won’t acknowledge it to herself. 
She keeps talking about him being just a young boy, and his 
character ain’t formed yet. But he’ll never be any different, 
Nathan; I’ve seen George’s kind before. Queer thing is 
somebody’s always taking care of ’em, and helping ’em 
out, and worrying over ’em; their parents or kin or some¬ 
body.” 

“Well, it’s very natural for Mrs. Ducey —” 

“Oh, yes, Anne’s all the time worrying around about some¬ 
body or something, anyhow. Every now and then she gets 
a spell of wanting to take care of me. And, damn it, Nathan, 
I don’t want to be taken care of,” said the old man, irritably. 
“Can’t make her understand that, somehow. I haven’t got 


“HERE’S SORRY CHEER ” 


537 


into my dotage yet, I guess. I can take care of myself; 
ain’t as young as I was, of course, but I don’t see any men 
of my age around that are any better preserved, now, — do 
you ?” 

Nat <*>uld and did assent to that with a clear conscience; 
for, in fact, there were few, if any, citizens of George Marsh’s 
age in the place. “You don’t look a day older to me, sir,” 
he said — and it was quite true. 

“I’vegot just as clear a head for business as I ever had in 
my life,” pursued the veteran; “I drew out just because I 
wanted to. But I ain’t on the shelf, by any means, Burke. 
I could get right back to work to-morrow, if I had to — if I 
lost my money, for instance. Not that I’m afraid of that; 
I’ve got it where it’s safe, I guess. Landed property and 
ground-rents don’t run away. I didn’t leave but a little with 
Ducey, you know. Between you and me, Nathan, Ducey 
hasn’t got any gumption — he ain’t smart. I’ll bet he’s 
running behind right along, and has been ever since he’s been 
by himself at the store, and probably don’t know it, or don’t 
know why, anyway. It’ll be just like it was that time down 
in New Orleans twenty-five years ago, when they all got out 
and came up here. William had got through everything. 
William thinks now he’s going to make a big thing out of 
these government contracts — for feeding the army, you 
know — same way I did back in 1812. ‘Look here, now, 
you want to go slow,’ I told him the other day. ‘First 
thing you know the war’ll be over, and that’ll leave you with 
the bag to hold. Don’t stock up too much; don’t have too 
much on hand, or too much ordered. It’s easy enough to 
get flour and bacon, without loading up with ’em.’ No use 
talking; he thinks the war’s going to last forever. Thinks 
we’re going to keep on till we’ve conquered Mexico.” 

“I hope not!” said Burke, seriously; he meant it. 

“Yes. I notice anybody that’s ^een war once, the way you 
have, has about got his bellyfull. But if Ducey don’t bust 
himself that way, he will some other way,” said Mr. Marsh, 
with a curious indifference. “ I’ve known a lot of men got 
busted doing the very things I did, only they didn’t know 
how. Why, they tell me now there’s a big whillabaloo being 
raised over land-titles — property all around here in the old 
Refugee Tract, and right next door to where I bought 


538 


NATHAN BURKE 


People named Allen, claiming to be the heirs of an Allen that 
the United States gave some land to back in the Revolution 
time — a British refugee from Canada, I believe. I remember 
when that land came on the market at sheriff’s sale— I’ve 
told you about it. You could buy it for nothing amiost — 
and look at the value of it now! But these Allens are making 
out that the sale made a cloud on the title somehow, and I 
understand they’ve brought suit against all the owners — 
the ones that have the most valuable improvements, anyhow. 
Now you know I bought right at that time, and same place — 
the Refugee Tract; and I was a little anxious at first when I 
heard about the suit. ‘I’ll be the next one,’ thinks I. But 
I’ve never heard a word out of any of ’em, or anybody else, 
and it’s been a year now since the shindy began. Nobody’s 
sueing me. I got out my old deeds and looked ’em over, and 
by damn, Nathan, I didn’t buy any of Allen’s land! I don’t 
remember the circumstances now, but I must have had my 
suspicions at the time. My titles all come from a fellow by 
the name of Granger. People will tell you that’s just old 
George Marsh’s luck. They don’t allow for old George 
Marsh’s common sense.” 

“That’s so,” said Nathan. 

“I don’t deny it’s given me some worry, Burke. This 
Granger now -— it’s funny there ain’t any of his children 
turned up. All the land was in what we used to call Mc¬ 
Bride’s Half-section, because McBride was one of the original 
proprietors, one of the fellows that bid for the site of the town, 
you know; and afterwards the speculation busted him, and 
the sheriff sold him out. He didn’t buy of Granger exactly, 
either; as near as I can make out from the papers he bought 
of an agent acting for Granger. Would that make any dif¬ 
ference in my titles, Nathan?” 

“Well, I — I’d have to $ee the papers before I could say. 
But I don’t believe you’ll ever hear from any of Granger’s 
descendants if they haven’t begun on you by this time,” 
said Burke, concerned at his old friend’s evident uneasiness. 
“It would take a great deal of time and trouble and money 
for them to prove a claim, anyhow.” 

“Yes, I know that — that’s one of the things that’s worry¬ 
ing me,” said old George, with impatience. “ If anything got 
started now, why, it would be sure to last me out, and at my 


“ HERE’S SORRY CHEER ” 


539 


death my property would pretty near all be tied up in a law¬ 
suit. How’d poor Walter’s children make out with a law¬ 
suit ? They’re all women, and they haven’t got any too much 
sense, anyhow. I guess I’ll bring all my deeds down and have 
you look ’em over. You see, Nathan,” he went on, almost 
apologetically, “ everybody was careless about forms, you 
know, in the old days. We — well, we were just careless — I 
can see it now. Just for a sample: I understand these Allen 
people take the ground that there wasn’t any appraisement of 
the lots made, and notice given properly — legally, you know, 
before the sale. Gilbert Gwynne was talking about that the 
other day, and presently he turned around to me and says: 
‘Why, here’s somebody ought to know. Mr. Marsh, you 
were there at the time, weren’t you? You remember those 
lots were all appraised regularly ? ’ The governor owns some 
of that Refugee Tract land, too, you know. But I just had to 
own up; I had to say to him: ‘Gil,’ says I, ‘I’ll be damned 
if I remember a thing about it! They put ’em up at 
auction two or three times, and when we got good and ready, 
we all went in and bought, and that’s every last thing I 
know!’ It ought to be a matter of record, but I doubt if 
anybody has the scratch of a pen to show for it.” 

He went on talking in this strain for some time, by turns 
vaunting his shrewdness, explaining his anxieties, and calling 
on Burke for reassurance in a manner which betrayed a sad 
falling off. It was not entirely just, Burke thought, to call 
him childish, or even greatly failed; the strength of his 
character endured and showed by flashes still; but certainly 
he was no longer the hard, resolute, and self-confident man of 
a few years back. Burke found something namelessly de¬ 
pressing in the old fellow’s softened ways towards himself, the 
warmth of his compliments, his proud assertions that he had 
seen there was “something in” his protege from the first. In 
the old days Mr. Marsh would as soon have thought of giving 
Nat a stick of candy as of flattering or even commending him; 
it was enough for him to approve. He used at times to talk 
very freely to the young man about his affairs and experiences, 
but his talk was always clear-headed, apt to the moment, 
profitable. Now he would run on endlessly, prompted by 
nothing but the desire for companionship and sympathy, 
asking for the other’s opinion, pleased at his interest —- 


540 


NATHAN BURKE 


which, Heaven forgive us, was often enough feigned, and very 
poorly feigned at that! It was touching. For, as time went 
on, old George’s visits to the office increased in length and 
frequency; I think he had nowhere else to go, and it was the 
event of the day for him. 

He invariably began by expressing his intention of staying 
only a short while — nobody ought to set foot in any man’s 
office but the people who had business there — he knew that 
— he just thought he’d look in for a minute — he was busy 
at home, anyhow. And he never went away without men¬ 
tioning the papers which he meant to bring down for Nathan 
to examine — he didn’t believe there was anything the mat¬ 
ter with them — guess it would take a smart man to find a 
flaw in his titles, old George Marsh’s titles — still, it would 
make him a little easier — he would bring them the next day. 
The next day came, and he had forgot them, by damn! But 
whether he really did forget them, or kept up this ingenious 
fiction to persuade himself that he had business at the office, 
it would be hard to say. He had a stout hickory chair in a 
corner, and would sit there a whole morning, silent when 
clients came in or the place was busy — for he had most 
rigorous ideas about office discipline — quite talkative, 
jocose, and reminiscent at other times with Burke, with 
Lewis, — who was always patience and good-humor itself, — 
with our increasing squad of clerks — the lads were generally 
kind-hearted and civil enough, even if they did grin at each 
other behind his back. I have heard Mr. Marsh pitching 
them some extraordinary tale of my own parts and prowess 
when I was such as they — “ Fifteen years I’ve known him, 
boys, fifteen years. I guess I’ve had plenty of time and 
chances to find out what kind he is. You’d get a pretty 
good line on a rascal in that time, hey ? I’ve seen the world,” 
he would observe somewhat ambiguously; and our Jacks and 
Jimmies would bolt incontinently into the outer hall, where 
we could hear their youthful guffawing. It was not a pic¬ 
turesque or stately decline; but I cannot in honesty dress it 
up or report it otherwise than as it was. If we could but 
choose the manner of our exit, and know when to expect the 
cue, what a grand business should we all make of it! But it is 
not a handsome thing to be old and tired and near our end; 
and whatever of sad or shabby was to be seen in old George 


“ HERE’S SORRY CHEER ” 


541 


Marsh will probably be seen in you and me. God be with 
him, honest old pagan! — although I must think he would 
be somewhat ill at ease in any sort of spiritual company; and 
like better, indeed, to believe him sleeping alone and sound 
and dreamlessly under the green turf. 


CHAPTER XVI 


In which Mr. Burke receives and makes Visits 

Burke, not having made any effort to “live down” the 
memory of the fault which he had not committed, and having 
made no change in his habits and way of life, was surprised 
and a little sardonically amused to find himself, after twelve 
months or so had gone by, gradually emerging, as it were, 
from the cloud of obloquy — undergoing rehabilitation. 
People get used to everything, and Nat, who was not par¬ 
ticularly observant, and had accepted his isolation without 
protest, woke up with a start one day to the fact that he was 
being looked at, and in some cases bowed to, officially and 
publicly recognized — albeit rather stiffly and self-con¬ 
sciously — by a number of those amiable beings without 
whose influence society would be a mere mess of corruption. 
I do not know what forces were at work: perhaps the ladies 
were tired of the game; perhaps they discerned a chance to 
reform him; perhaps there was a growing opinion that he 
had been punished enough, and a desire to gather up the 
spilled milk, as Jim would have suggested. The poor wretch 
bore no malice; it is only women who feel a righteous enmity 
towards those who are in the wrong, and who will hate you 
sturdily for a difference of belief. He humbly and grate¬ 
fully took off his hat to these signs — not of returning favor, 
he had not the conceit to think that — of reestablished 
tolerance. All the husbands had long since relented, for 
convenience’ sake, if from no kinder motive; and when 
William Ducey appeared at the office one fine morning, 
Burke might have known, if he had troubled his head about 
it at all, that the last of the barriers was down. 

For, of all his judges, Mrs. Anne Ducey was the hardest 
and most implacable, as Nathan had observed with a sort 
of good-tempered and patient irony. He would have 
guessed it, even without old Mr. Marsh’s reports. She could 
not forgive him for having laid her under certain obligations 

542 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 543 


— for, even if she did not know the exact extent of them, 
what she did know irked her pride. And again: whatever 
kind of man Burke had proved morally, he was at least 
moderately clever, strong, successful — was her George 
any of these things ? She visited her disappointment on 
Burke’s head, with a bitterness increased, it may be, by a 
consciousness of injustice; for Anne was an upright woman. 
But what mother’s heart was ever governed by her head ? 
I have lived a good while and made enemies in my time, 
and some friends, I hope, and have felt an enmity or friend¬ 
ship for others, and I will say flat that I never saw a like or 
dislike that was wholly logical; and if Mrs. Ducey’s attitude 
seems unworthy or incomprehensible, it is because it was so 
simple and so natural. Undoubtedly it gave her a solid if 
unacknowledged satisfaction when Sin found out the hitherto 
reputable Mr. Burke, and judgment overtook him. Such 
an event always pleases everybody. The jusjt man falls 
seven times — and how the world does love to see him fall ! 

So, then, nobody so rigid as Mrs. Anne in punishment, 
nobody so consistent. She would cross the street if she saw 
the culprit coming ever so far away; she would get up and 
leave her own front porch, she would turn her back in the 
yard when Burke passed. She made William avoid him 
like a pestilence; she had battles royal with her uncle on the 
subject of his inveterate regard for the young man, his fre¬ 
quenting of Burke’s precincts. The old fellow used to detail 
them, grinning satanically. I believe the desire to plague 
Anne strengthened and confirmed his attachment. “She 
leads Francie a dickens of a life on your account, Nat,” he 
once said; “Francie’s got plenty of spunk, you know, in spite 
of her being such a quiet little thing, and she always has stood 
up for you. When that first letter of George’s came, there 
was a flare-up, I tell you! Francie said there wasn’t a word 
of truth in the whole story, George never told the truth, any¬ 
how; she was sure he was just mad at you because you 
wouldn’t lend him money, or help get him out of some scrape. 
Then Anne got up on her ear, and called her a wicked, un¬ 
grateful, slanderous girl without any affection for her own 
kin — as if that was an argument! They had it hot and 
heavy, and then ended the way women do, you know, by 
bursting out crying and bawling, and making up and each 


544 


NATHAN BURKE 


one calling herself names for being so hateful to the other. 
If either William or I interferes to make peace, damned if they 
don't both of 'em light into us! They're really very fond of 
each other; Anne's about the only mother Francie's ever 
known. And they're both mighty good women, Burke — 
the salt of the earth, both of 'em. But they can't make up 
their minds to let each other alone, and each one think her 
own way about you. Every time your name's mentioned 
there's the same old row.” 

Nat listened amazed and rather troubled. He had sup¬ 
posed that Francie thought about him, as every one else; 
she had always been a submissive child, never disobeying 
and rarely even contradicting her elders. But she was also 
loyal and steadfast in her affection, as he knew; a little girl 
she had liked him, and it warmed his lonesome heart to think 
that she liked him still, or anyhow believed in him, in spite 
of everything, in defiance of everybody. He had seen her 
at a distance twice since his return; and once came face to 
face with her at the door of a shop, just as she was leaving 
with an armful of small bundles; the Ducey carriage, which 
was very splendid with polished surfaces, and shining, silver- 
plated chains and buckles, and a pair of champing black 
horses, stood at the curb. Francie dropped all her bundles 
with a start; her sweet little face turned quite gray. Nathan 
bowed soberly, and stooped down and picked up the pack¬ 
ages and restored them to her — what else should he have 
done? “Th-thank you—” said Francie, in a fluttering 
voice, and, scarlet now, with trembling lips, she went across 
the sidewalk to where her aunt was sitting in the carriage, 
erect, forbidding, watchful. Mrs. Ducey took the things, 
fingering them fastidiously. 

“What did that — that person say to you, Francie; tell 
me this minute!” Burke heard her ask sharply; indeed she 
raised her voice rather than lowered it for this somewhat 
personal remark, carefully looking around, over, through, 
and beyond the young man. 

“He didn't say anything,” stammered the girl, hes¬ 
itating between them; and Burke, to relieve her, and 
perhaps also to hide his own loss of countenance, strode 
off. He would not have thought it possible for so trifling 
a thing to make him so angry. All the slights and petty 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 545 


cruelties he had endured were as nothing beside the secure 
feminine insolence and brutality of Mrs. Ducey’s voice 
and manner; he was down and she struck him — they 
all struck him. If their miserable weapons had been real 
slings and arrows, he was a man and could not revenge him¬ 
self upon these weak creatures. “ Francie would have spoken 
to me, if she had been by herself/’ he thought; “she couldn’t 
have been contaminated by it. She used to like me. I 
wouldn’t have taken advantage of her kindness or her inex¬ 
perience; I wouldn’t have presumed on it. I wouldn’t 
even have let her say more than a how-d’ye-do for fear of 
giving some of these elderly cats some cause to gossip about 
her. They might give me credit for that much decency. 
Why, if I were as bad as they make out, they might know I 
still would respect a pure young girl like Francie.” Sore 
and sick at heart was poor Nat; all the cynical philosophy 
he summoned up could not soothe him, and if virtue is 
its own reward, he found that a very poor and unsatisfactory 
one. 

Hearing these words of old George’s, however, a kind of 
shamefaced gratification rose within him, “It’s a pity if 
they can’t find something better worth while than me to 
quarrel over,” he said, but I think there was a little false 
humility in that speech. Francie was his friend after all 
— she still liked him — the only woman who dared. He 
didn’t count poor Mrs. Slaney; he had always been liked 
and somewhat feared and looked up to by chambermaids, 
laundresses, charwomen, the Mrs. Slaneys of all conditions 
and shades of rank. And to be sure there was Miss Varda¬ 
nian; but she was, of. course, influenced by Jack, and, too, 
she had reached an age when she might conduct herself as 
she thought proper and display a liking for any man she 
chose, without arousing comment, and — and — And, 
in short, if Francie had been forty-five, with crows’ feet and 
a pinch under her chin, I doubt if Mr. Nat would have found 
it so peculiarly pleasing to be championed by her. There is 
a difference; the girl risked more, according to a woman’s 
code; it took more character. For the idea of anybody 
making loose advances to a spinster of Miss Clara’s type, 
or of her name being dragged into a scandalous association, 
was so fantastically ludicrous it might make even the women 
2n 


546 


NATHAN BURKE 


laugh. Burke absently shuffled the papers on his desk; 
Francie must be about twenty-one — or twenty-two at 
most; she had a nice, round little figure — she had been 
rather dumpy and awkward at fifteen when she first put 
on long dresses — and a very pretty complexion, and dimples 
— he paused, recalling her dimples; heigh-ho! Burke him¬ 
self was eight or nine years older and getting as gray as a 
badger, and was done forever with girls, women, the domes¬ 
ticities. And, in fact, he w r as doing nothing at all, sitting 
staring out of the window, when Lewis came in with the brief 
in the suit of Porter vs. Brinkerhoff for alleged defamation of 
character, and he turned with a sigh to the consideration of 
other people’s troubles. 

It was months after these episodes, and public opinion had 
been for some time undergoing the change and softening 
hinted at in the beginning of this chapter when, for a kind of 
climax to the process, Mr. Ducey came in, figuratively ex¬ 
tending the olive-branch. William had got a shade fatter 
of late years, but his pallid complexion was unaltered, his 
hair as black, abundant, and abundantly oiled as ever, falling 
in the same rich abandon to his coat-collar; he was just as 
fond of fancy waistcoats, and looked as trim and as unosten¬ 
tatiously elegant as in the old days; and his manner showed 
the same gracious — and I am sure, kindly meant — patron¬ 
age. No one would have supposed that times were at all 
changed with either of them, since the day Burke left the 
Ducey stable to serve under old George Marsh. For a 
flash Nat saw himself, a gawky hobbledehoy of seventeen or 
so, in his ill-fitting Sunday clothes, his squeaking boots, 
diffident, anxious, hopeful, mounting the office-stool; he 
had cut his initials with a jack-knife on its hollowing seat, 
which had acquired a mirrorlike polish, something akin to 
that which erelong decorated the corresponding surface of 
young Burke’s pantaloons; he was only a boy, after all. 
He wondered if the initials were there still. He could smell 
again the hemp and coffee in the cellar; he had an instant 
vision of Mr. Marsh with the market-report on his knee, 
his eyebrows knotted over his dingy note-book and stub of 
pencil; of Mr. Ducey yawning furtively among his eternal 
memoranda. Now here was William delivering cordial 
and flattering commonplaces about his ex-clerk’s achieve- 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 547 


ments and abilities, about his office and his practice and 
everything that was his, exactly as if he had not deliberately 
ignored and cold-shouldered the young man for more than 
a year! 

Business was dull, very dull, according to Mr. Ducey; 
it generally was so immediately after a presidential cam¬ 
paign year; and, in fact, during, and he might say, before a 
presidential campaign year. You had no sooner recovered 
from th — ah — the depression incident to one, than the 
next one — er — set in, as you might say. He thought it 
was getting worse and worse. He had thought it might 
be owing more or less, you understand more or less , to the 
present or the recent policy of the government, and to its 
future intentions. Now, for instance, this buying of all that 
territory in the southwest from Mexico, after we had over¬ 
run and practically taken it vi et armis — by force of arms, 
you understand. He was a believer in expansion, but he 
thought there were faults in the present — ah — system, 
as one might call it. If you looked at the government 
precisely as you would at a private citizen, — and there 
was no real reason why you shouldn’t, no real reason, 
— you would be struck by the thought that with the 
government business, as with the private citizen’s business, 
expansion could only be carried on by means of ready 
money. The buying of this New Mexican Territory proved 
that; it took fifteen millions. Unquestionably a great 
deal of ready money was necessary to carry on expansion. 
The result of that invariably was that you were cramped in 
some directions while you were expanding in others. The 
private individual — unless he was a very exceptional indi¬ 
vidual with a large capital in hand — had to give notes, 
and — ah — in the course of time he would inevitably have 
to meet those notes; and as these times came around, in 
view of the expenses of expansion, he would not improbably 
be short of money. “It works both ways, you see!” was 
Mr. Ducey’s triumphant deduction from these arguments. 

Burke waited for more, beginning, however to have a glim¬ 
mering notion of where all this was leading. There was still 
a good way to go, for William was naturally fond of words, nor 
was he the only man of Burke’s acquaintance who talked 
a great deal without saying anything. And if it is difficult 


548 


NATHAN BURKE 


for many of us to set out a plain purpose in plain words, 
what does it become when the plan itself is slightly involved 
and by no means secure of a favorable hearing ? Once, for a 
while, Burke shared an office with a couple of young fellows 
about his own age, brokers and real-estate agents; and during 
this association Nat had noted with interest the thousand- 
and-one ways in which men buy, sell, beg, bargain for, and, 
above all, borrow money. They ranged from the brisk 
youth who clerked in the other broker’s office up the street, 
whirling in—“Hello! Good morning! Got any money ?” 
Yes — and he began forthwith to recite terms and securities; 
no —- and out he whirled again to seek some other dealer! 
They ranged from him, I say, through every imaginable style 
of person and proposition down at last to the man who 
needed desperately a loan which he knew he would never 
repay — knew it and knew that you suspected it. There 
is a specific look about him that cannot be mistaken — 
haven’t we all seen him, amiable, nervous, deprecatory, 
jolly with a ghastly jollity, wretchedly and laboriously confi¬ 
dent ? He need not be a rogue; too often he is an old friend, 
banking, let us hope unconsciously, on that old friendship. 
Something of this look Nat thought he detected in his ancient 
employer. Mr. Marsh’s unkind prophecies — which, how¬ 
ever, to do the old man justice, I am certain he never repeated 
to any one else, or publicly where they might have done his 
nephew harm — recurred to Burke in connection with various 
vague rumors of the street. He waited patiently for the 
other to get to the point. “Ducey can’t expect to borrow 
of me,” he thought; “and he knows I don’t conduct a loan 
business. What is he after ?” 

It was quite absurdly simple when it came out at last; 
William wanted Burke to get a loan for him out of Mr. 
Marsh — nothing could be easier for Burke, it appeared, 
nor, sad and strange to say, more difficult for Mr. Ducey 
himself. “I don’t conceal from you, Nathan,” he said — 
they had got as far as “Nathan” by this time in revived con¬ 
fidence and regard! — “I don’t conceal from you, and I sup¬ 
pose for that matter you must have noticed yourself, that 
my wife’s uncle feels, or, as you might say, entertains, a prej¬ 
udice against me. It has increased or — er — augmented 
with his years, and of course he is now a very old man — 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 549 


eighty-four, I believe — and is very infirm or feeble bodily — 
physically, and — ah — mentally. His mind, you know, 
is not what it was; he talks and repeats himself — says the 
same thing over and over, and, in short, has — ah — failed. 
Now, under these circumstances, I don’t want to do any¬ 
thing that would appear to be taking advantage of him — 
that any one could construe as taking advantage of his age 
and weakness. I don’t want to approach him, to — to — to 
approach him, in short, for this eight thousand dollars, al¬ 
though the sum is paltry — merely to overcome a temporary 
inconvenience — and he would be perfectly secured, and 
is in a better position to lend money than anybody I know 
of. Of course you know that is so; you know all about his 
affairs.” 

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Ducey, I don’t know anything 
about Mr. Marsh’s affairs,” said Burke. “He never has 
told me anything of importance about them.” 

Mr. Ducey looked politely surprised and incredulous. 
“Why, you don’t tell me so, Nathan ? I thought you man¬ 
aged his — er — his investments. I don’t know why he 
doesn’t employ you — a man of your known integrity and 
ability ! ” 

“He employs another man of equally well-known integ¬ 
rity and ability, by the name of George Marsh,” said Burke, 
with a laugh; “I doubt if he has ever considered any other 
agent.” 

“Well — er — ahem—he is a very rich man, at least 
you know that — everybody knows that. But in view of 
this dislike or prejudice he feels against me, I feel a — a 
hesitation — a reluctance to approaching him. He wouldn’t 
listen to me — he hasn’t any confidence in me, somehow,” 
said William, with some bitterness. “But if you would put 
the matter before him — it’s not really a loan, you know, 
Burke, it’s an investment — I am sure the old gentleman would 
consider it. You — you might say five thousand, if you 
think you would be more likely to — ah — to succeed.” 
He said a good deal more, advancing almost too many argu¬ 
ments in favor of this business transaction; and in reply to 
a suggestion of Burke’s that he might apply to almost any 
well-to-do merchant in town instead of risking a refusal with 
harsh words from Mr. Marsh, entered into a very long and 


550 


NATHAN BURKE 


confused explanation which did not explain — none of them 
ever do. He was under certain obligations to Mr. Marsh 
— Mr. Marsh should be entitled to — ah — to first choice, 
as one might say — in these hard times few men, even 
wealthy men, could spare — that is to say, would have so 
much cash lying idle — not that the sum was large, but — 
ah — Everybody knowing of the relationship would — 
ah — would think, it strange that he should go outside the 
family for a loan — particularly when it was so safe and 
profitable; and that would produce a bad impression, would 
tend to destroy confidence, in short. There were so many 
reasons why William should “approach” Mr. Marsh that 
Burke finally began to suspect the real reason — that every¬ 
body else had already been “approached” in vain. He 
promised, in the end, to “speak to” old George, and with that 
Mr. Ducey had to be content. At any rate he appeared so, 
asked some urbane questions about Nathan’s own prospects, 
gave him a kind message from Mrs. Ducey (!), vaguely 
invited him to “come up and take dinner with us one of these 
days,” shook hands with extreme heartiness, and at last got 
himself out of the door — and almost into the arms of Mr. 
Marsh, slowly puffing up the stairs. It marred the exit 
somewhat. 

“What’d Ducey want, Nathan?” said the old man, set¬ 
tling heavily into his accustomed chair, and reversing his 
cane to hook the cuspidor into easy reach; “huh? What’d 
he want, hey ? What’s he coming here for ? Anne’ll give 
him particular fits if he don’t look out.” 

Burke told him, watching the hard, square, lined old face 
with a little humane anxiety, and obliged to acknowledge 
inwardly that the outlook was not hopeful. “I thought 
William would bust the business sooner or later,” was Mr. 
Marsh’s sympathetic comment. “He wouldn’t pay any 
attention to me. Didn’t I tell you that, Burke ? Now he 
wants to borrow of me, huh? Well—” he looked around 
abstractedly, and, Lewis coming in at that moment, broke 
off to greet him genially: “How d’ye do, Archer? Howdy 
do, boys ? I can’t stay long this morning, just thought I’d 
drop in. I never did like to see a man loafing around a 
store or an office if he didn’t have any business to attend to 
there; and I got to go home presently, anyhow, and see about 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 551 


something.” He never mentioned Mr. Ducey’s proposition 
again; nor did Burke hear of it from the other. 

In fact, anybody endowed with much less penetration than 
George Marsh, or even Mr. Nat Burke, might have known 
before long that Ducey & Co. was in process of collaps¬ 
ing, like the children’s balloons or other inflated toys I 
have seen, pricked and shrinking to flabby nothingness 
before one’s eyes. It # had been a flourishing concern five 
years ago; what had undermined it? Perhaps “expansion,” 
perhaps, alas, too much confidence in his fellow-man on poor 
William’s part. When at last that grim day came whereon 
the firm’s failure was published abroad, and the receiver 
took the store in hand, and there was an auction-board and 
a pestilential red flag on the lawn, and the newspapers filled 
up their columns with the fruits of their tireless and enthusi¬ 
astic research, what gold-mines, what wildcat banks, what 
rotten insurance companies, what swindling railroad schemes, 
what “Alexandria” and “Wellsburgh” lotteries figured in 
the tale! Burke, reading them, was reminded against his 
will of the gambler’s cynical aphorism: “You can’t skin an 
honest man.” Were not these ingenious enterprises chiefly 
directed towards getting something for nothing? I declare 
that is no dishonest ambition with some men — certainly not 
with William Ducey. I see these visionaries as poets gone 
astray and dreaming of dollars instead of dactyls —grown-up 
boys still looking for Aladdin’s lamp or the caves of Ali Baba. 

Notwithstanding the dismal publicity of the failure and his 
own growing garrulity, Mr. Marsh did not discuss it at much 
length in the office. On Burke’s remarking that it seemed 
unnecessary and a great pity for the Duceys to sacrifice their 
household furniture at auction, and that it could surely 
have been arranged otherwise, old George told him that 
Mrs. Anne had insisted on this measure. 

“Anne’s got her pride and her notions of honor and hon¬ 
esty, Nathan, ” he said, not without some feeling; “she’s 
bound and determined they shall pay out all they’ve got to 
the last penny, and satisfy William’s creditors as far as pos¬ 
sible. I said to her: ‘Why, Lord, ’twon’t be more than 
four or five hundred dollars you’ll get out of the bureaus and 
mattresses, and what’s that? A mere drop in the bucket. 
Better keep ’em; you can set up your boarding-house with 


552 


NATHAN BURKE 


’em.’ That’s what she’s going to do, you know, keep 
boarders. She wouldn’t hear of it. Poor Anne! I just 
made up my mind, then, Nat,” said the old man, sinking his 
voice to a growling whisper, and looking sharply around to 
see that nobody overheard what appeared to him a confes¬ 
sion of weakness; “I just made up my mind I’d buy in some 
of the things myself — the ordinary furniture, not the fancy 
stuff like that French clock or the china figgers on the parlor 
chimneypiece — she don’t need them — and give ’em back to 
her, so’s she’ll have something to go on. Boarders have got 
to set on chairs and eat off tables, I guess. It’s better than 
to give her the money — ’twon’t cost so much, anyhow, and 
the things are good. If she had the money, she’d give it to 
William. I guess folks think it’s kind of queer I don’t help 
’em, but, by damn, I done a lot of helping in times past. I 
used to help Walter, and I ain’t going to begin that over again. 
They’ll get my money — some of it, anyhow — when I die, 
and its pouring water through a sieve to begin giving it to 
’em now. Anne’s the only one of the whole caboodle that 
ever wanted to pay anybody back, or to help out by working 
herself.” 

“This is pretty hard on her. Doesn’t she ever hear from 
George?” Burke asked. 

“I believe she has once. I believe he wrote from Mobile 
or somewhere, and wanted money. She scraped around and 
sent him some. That’s the last I know.” He paused, chew¬ 
ing thoughtfully. “Say, Burke, did Ducey ever pay you what 
you spent for boarding George and taking care of him down 
there in Mexico City?” 

“No,” said Burke, and could not help smiling at the ex¬ 
pression on the other’s face. 

“That ain’t good business, Nathan,” said old George, 
severely. 

“Oh, Mr. Ducey knows. I sent him a memorandum. 
He forgot it, I guess; and you wouldn’t want me to come on 
him now, would you?” Burke said, and laughed outright. 

If it had not been for Mr. Marsh’s announcement of his own 
plans, Nat would never have thought of going to the Ducey 
sale. Shrinking distaste possessed him at the notion of the 
crowd noisily invading the house where so lately no one would 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 553 


have presumed to enter unasked, prowling about the poor, 
defenceless rooms — Mrs. Ducey’s room, Francie’s room 
— trying locked doors, exploring the attic and cellar, fum¬ 
bling at the hangings, staring, criticising, comparing bargains, 
haw-hawing over the auctioneer’s pleasantries. Verily, I 
think I should rather go to a funeral than witness such a 
profanation of a friend’s home — a decent family mansion. 
Every such roof whereunder men have lived and suffered 
and been happy, has a soul; one might fancy its mirrors 
reflecting with loathing the strange faces, its curtains and 
carpets shuddering at the alien touch. Its very shabbinesses 
move one inexplicably, they speak so of old and dear associa¬ 
tion. There goes the big leather arm-chair out of poor 
Jones’s sitting-room — the chair he used to sit and smoke 
and dream in; it is knocked down for three dollars — all it 
was worth, probably — to the stout, red-faced lady with the 
plaid shawl and the feathers in her bonnet; she was their 
laundress, I believe. The little walnut bureau with the long 
swinging glass and the drawers up one side was Mrs. Jones’s; 
there is a discolored place on one of its marble tops where she 
got into the habit of laying the curling-iron down — the 
bureau won’t fetch much, it’s too worn. The small room 
just off of the bedroom ? Why, that was the nursery; 
can’t you see the gouges all along the baseboard where the 
points of her rocker hit when she sat in that low chair with 
a baby ? • And now from the garret they have brought down 
a whole wheelbarrow-load of broken toys, picture-books, 
building-blocks, a doll’s cradle and trunk, the sight of which 
brings forth much laughter from the spectators; they bundle 
all the trash into one lot, and get rid of it to that elderly, 
side-whiskered gentleman who is the Superintendent of the 
Presbyterian Children’s Hospital. I do not feel much like 
laughing, I! And I won’t even bid on the mahogany chest 
and hat-rack, although I used to envy Jones the possession 
of them.; let somebody who doesn’t know the family have 
them. I should as lief have a mahogany ghost in the house 
as that relic, and wouldn’t know how to look Jones in the 
face — broken-down failure that he is — if he should come 
into my hall and hang his hat on those pegs. 

Mr. Burke was quite alone in this sentimental reluctance; 
everybody in the town, he soon found, was going to the Ducey 


554 


NATHAN BURKE 


auction, some openly and brazenly, some more or less shame* 
facedly curious, some with the avowed intention of buying 
such and such a piece, some vaguely on the lookout for 
bargains. It was understood that a considerable part of the 
Ducey expenditures had gone into fittings and furnishings; 
everybody hoped they would realize something , but things 
generally go for a fourth of their value, you know. Jack 
Vardaman told Nathan he meant to buy one of the black 
carriage-horses, if they decided to break up the pair — he 
needed another horse for his buggy. “I said to Clara that 
if there was anything she wanted, any ornament, you know, 
Ud bid on it for her. They say everything in the house is 
to go, but she didn’t seem to care for anything,” he said; 
“are you going, Nathan?” 

“I — I thought maybe I’d bid on some of the ornaments 
myself,” Nat confessed, a little confused under the doctor’s sur¬ 
prised look; “there’s a French clock, and some mantel 
ornaments I’ve always admired,” he explained, devoutly 
hoping he would be able to identify those articles when they 
were put up. Vardaman, although he was plainly con¬ 
founded at discovering such tastes in the other, said nothing. 
They walked out to the house together. 

It was a pleasant, bright May day; the place was already 
running over with people, who had tramped down the fresh 
grass a good deal, and defaced the flower beds, and broken 
branches off of the lilac and syringa bushes for bouquets; 
Nat noted the ravages with a sympathetic pang. The front 
part of the house was entirely open; only in the wing at the 
back there were some closed doors and shutters on the 
second floor where the family were staying, some one said. 
The stable was all turned out of doors/alow and aloft; the 
horses were being paraded for inspection; the vehicles, yes, 
that very shining, varnished, broadcloth-cushioned barouche 
whence Mrs. Ducey had bestowed so crushing a salute on 
him, Nathan now saw being run backwards and forwards, 
the wheels squinted at, the upholsterings prodded by dirty 
fingers. The stable had been enlarged since his day; his 
little room next the hayloft had disappeared. He sauntered 
to the tool-house, picked up an axe, and “hefted” it know¬ 
ingly, testing the blade with his thumb. “Look out, mister,” 
a working-man standing by warned him; “nobody hadn’t 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 555 


orter fool around them edge-tools that don’t know nothin’ 
’bout handlin’ ’em.” Nathan put it down with a half-laugh, 
half-sigh. He went back into the house, meeting a good 
many acquaintances, all of whom remarked to him and to 
each other, “What! You here!” and presently found old 
Mr. Marsh vigilantly attending to his purchases. 

“Just got the dining-room set — the chairs and table, that 
is—she can get along without the sideboard — for thirty-five 
dollars. Pretty good, Nathan, hey?” he reported. “They’re 
solid wood, and cost Ducey a hundred and twenty-five, 
I know. Bookcases? No, I ain’t going to bid on any 
bookcases,” he broke off to announce decidedly, as one of 
the auctioneer’s aides deferentially called his attention to the 
article next being offered. “No, I don’t want ’em. But 
as soon as he comes to the coal-hods and fire-irons, let me 
know, will you? Mighty necessary, coal-hods and fire- 
irons.” The neighboring competitors nudged each other 
grinning; doubtless they were speculating as to what on 
earth old George Marsh was here buying for. 

In the front parlor — which, even under the present cir¬ 
cumstances, was a much more splendid apartment than 
Burke remembered, with brocatelle and lace draping the 
windows, and a great display of tables, consoles, divans, 
gilt mirrors, and so on, now huddled into corners and piled 
up to make room — there were collected together on the top 
of the piano an army of vases, candelabra, and china figures, 
officered by two or three ornate clocks, which another obliging 
myrmidon volunteered to get the auctioneer to offer as soon 
as the furniture with which he was then engaged was dis¬ 
posed of. And Mr. Burke, becoming, after some spirited 
competition, the proprietor of about one-third of the assort¬ 
ment embracing a clock, two tall French vases or urns of 
a rather monumental or sepulchral aspect according to his 
own ideas, a Dresden youth in pink and yellow striped china 
tights playing a china guitar, and a corresponding young 
lady in china petticoats and a shockingly low bodice — 
Nat, I say, having acquired all these gimcracks, gave direc- 
tions for them to be put aside with Mr. Marsh’s goods. 

“Oh my, you’d better not do that, sir,” his ally, the auc¬ 
tioneer’s page, objected; “you don’t want to mix up clocks 
and bedsteads together. I’d better take ’em out to the 


55G 


NATHAN BURKE 


kitchen, where they won’t get knocked around, hadn’t I ? 
There ain’t anybody out there.” Nat followed the good- 
natured lad to this place of safety, himself bearing one of the 
figures, to the openly expressed amusement of the crowd; 
and just as he was setting down his burden on the deal table, 
the door from the back entry and stairway opened, and in 
walked Francie Blake! 

She gave an exclamation at sight of him, made a step back, 
hesitated, then came resolutely into the room, shutting the 
door behind her. Nobody witnessed this meeting, the 
kitchen being empty, and, I suppose, lacking attraction as 
compared with the parlor, where the sale was in full swing, 
and the crowd very thick. Burke was confusedly conscious 
of being glad they were alone, although this was hardly the 
place or time or way he would have planned to meet her. 

“Na — Mr. Burke!” said Francie, helplessly. 

“Why, I — er — how do you do?” stammered the gentle¬ 
man, turning a fine red, desperately aware that this con¬ 
ventional greeting by no means explained his presence, but 
perfectly unable to think of anything else. “I — I wasn’t 
expecting to see you,” he added unnecessarily. 

“I’ve been upstairs with Aunt Anne,” said Francie, her 
wondering eyes travelling between him and the pink and 
yellow tights. “I came down to get her a glass of water. 
She doesn’t want anybody to see her, but it’s no difference if 
they see me. I didn’t know you were here, either — at the 
sale, I mean.” 

Their eyes met in silence. They stood in the kitchen 
awkward and dumb, between them what memories, what 
lost years, what bitterness — on Burke’s side, at least — of 
the misunderstood and misjudged! A petty tragedy en¬ 
compassed them — the tragedy of this kind house; and 
neither of them could say a word. Ordinary forms seemed 
wholly inadequate to the occasion, yet ordinary forms were 
all they had to use. The very knowledge that this young girl 
had taken his part when every one she knew was against, him 
filled Burke with a passion of gratitude and tender admira¬ 
tion; yet every convention forbade him to speak of it to her 
— even to let her know he knew of it. The girl recovered 
self-possession first, though changes of color slipped across 
her face in that charming fashion familiar with her. 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 557 


“You’ve been bidding?” she said casually, glancing at the 
table again as she moved towards a shelf of crockery. 

“Well, I — um — I thought I’d just put these things with the 
things Mr. Marsh is buying. I — I don’t know much about 
them, of course, but I thought Mrs. Ducey might like to 
have — er—” Nat began to explain clumsily enough, when 
she interrupted him in frank surprise. 

“The things Mr. Marsh is buying ? What is Uncle George 
buying ? We didn’t suppose he’d come. Why, he- surely 
can’t be thinking of setting up housekeeping! ” Francie 
dimpled with laughter in spite of herself. “Do you mean 
he got those?” she demanded, eying the china guitar with 
a new interest. 

Nathan told her, grinning a little himself. “.It didn’t 
occur to me you mightn’t know about it,” he said; “I sup¬ 
posed old Geo — your uncle, I mean, would have said some¬ 
thing to you — he might have found out what your aunt 
particularly valued, for instance —” 

More dimples. “Gracious !” said Francie, with a kind of 
gleeful satire; “he’d never do that in the world. Think of 
the risk !” 

“Yes, his idea appears to be to give Mrs. Ducey the bare 
necessities —” 

“I’m sure it’s very good of Uncle George, too. But what 
a beautiful time he must be having!” the girl said with a 
sober humor twinkling in her brown eyes; and they both 
laughed outright. I think they were a little unnerved by 
the suddenness of their meeting; but in truth old George, 
thrifty even in his benevolence, animatedly and happily 
engaged at the only pursuit, the only enjoyment of his whole 
long life, and one which he must sorely have missed of late, 
matching wits against the other bidders, saying among the 
trumpets Ha, ha! was a figure of quaint comedy even in this 
grave hour. 

“Then you bought them — the clock and the vases, and 
the rest ?” inquired Francie. 

“Well, I thought it was pretty hard for Mrs. Ducey to 
go without her trifles — pretty things, the kind she’s always 
been used to—” Burke said in some embarrassment; “the 
whole thing is so hard on her, anyhow. And so I — I —” 

“And so you thought you’d give her some of them?” 


558 


NATHAN BURKE 


Francie finished, looking first at the table and then at him, 
with a rather troubled smile this time. “ I’m afraid she won’t 
want to take them.” 

“She doesn’t need to know anything about it,” retorted 
Nat; “just let ’em go with the rest — w T ith what your Uncle 
George buys in. It’s not a matter of any importance. Mrs. 
Ducey was really not called upon to make these sacrifices. 
She might just as well give up her clothes and jewelry.” 

“Well, she would do it — and I suppose it is right, isn’t it? 
The people ought to be paid, and Aunt Anne says it would be 
wicked for a man’s wife to keep back anything. She wants 
to help all she can, she says. Only, Nathan, it seems to me, 
if you and everybody are going to buy the things and give 
them back to her, she’s just where she was before —” She 
paused, surveying him doubtfully; she was not at all aware 
that she had called him by his name. Insensibly they had 
fallen into the old attitude of confidence. The estrangement, 
Burke’s ostracism, the clackings of scandal, were forgotten; 
they were absorbed in the discussion of Mrs. Ducey’s diffi¬ 
culties. And at Francie’s last words Burke had to smile, 
noting how characteristic of her aunt was this generosity, 
this stubbornness, this self-sacrifice which achieved nothing 
but the making everybody else uncomfortable, this fanatic 
devotion to an unreasoned conception of duty. Perhaps 
Francie fathomed his thought, for her smile followed his. 

“Aunt Anne is sure she is right” she said in a sort of af¬ 
fectionate apology. 

“Well, she’s doing all she knows how to help, anyway. 
She’s going to take boarders, somebody told me.” 

“Yes. I don’t know how we’ll manage,” said the girl, a 
little humorously dubious. “Aunt Anne’s always having 
trouble with the servants, you know—” she stopped short 
with a gasp, and a rush of scarlet to the roots of her hair. 
I dare say the other colored up, too, for both must have been 
thinking of the same disastrous domestic experiment Mrs. 
Ducey had made. There was another instant of silence, 
when it seemed to Burke as if the hundred things he longed 
and could not find words to say hung almost palpable in the 
air — and then, with a gust of loud talk, half a dozen women 
from the auction burst into the room. Why should its two 
occupants have started guiltily, turning even redder than 


MR. BURKE RECEIVES AND MAKES VISITS 559 


before? They had not been standing very close together, 
and all the world might have heard the conversation. The 
people were entire strangers to both, as it happened, and 
wanted merely to take a look at the kitchen stove. Nathan 
was profoundly annoyed; he wished they could have kept 
out for another half-minute, anyhow. He might not see 
Francie this way again, for nobody knows how long — if ever! 
he thought dolefully. Here were these cackling busybodies 
running around, poking and prying and asking questions: 
“Do you know how these dampers work?” “Well, 
I’ll bet that stove is ten years old, if it’s a day !” 
“Shucks, Maria, you can cook on it just as well if the top 
lids is a leetle mite warped.” “Say, young woman, are you 
th’ hired girl? Goin’ to stay with th’ fam’ly ? Th’ lady’s 
pretty hard to work fer, ain’t she?” “How much you 
gittin’?” “I know a first-rate place —” 

“I’ll stay here, I think,” said Francie, sending a glance of 
demure mis'chief in Burke’s direction. 

“ I guess I’d better go,” he said, part in impatience, part in 
unwilling amusement; some children had come galloping in 
on the heels of their elders, screaming and scuffling with 
rough and tumble play in the corners. Francie followed 
him to the door and out on the porch and put out her hand 
with so kind a look that Nathan, holding it close, was em¬ 
boldened to add beseechingly: “I — I’ll see you again some 
time — soon — can’t I ? You’re going to speak to me after 
this, aren’t you, Francie ? ” 

She made an odd rejoinder, looking at him and quickly 
away again, with an expression quite indecipherable to his 
heavy masculine wits. “Oh, Nathan, you are so — so —” 
apparently the word eluded her; she could not say what he 
was, and went on headlong —“Of course I’m going to speak 
to you. I should have long before this if — if I’d had a 
chance. There ! ” and took her hand away, and hurried back 
into the house. 

With this comfortable assurance Mr. Burke walked away, 
blessing the impulse upon which he had bought those gew¬ 
gaws for Mrs. Ducey. He would have liked to go back and 
bid in the whole family of porcelain shepherds and shepherd¬ 
esses if he could have been sure of repeating the last half- 
hour’s experience. But had he really bought them for Mrs. 
Ducey ? 


CHAPTER XVII 


Times change — and we change with Them 

Certain cynics have pointed out with much unkind coim 
ment that when an erstwhile prosperous and successful man 
loses his money, no matter how blameless and amiable he 
may be, he is pretty sure to lose his friends along with it. 
The thing is sadly true, but not for the ignoble reasons they 
commonly assign; most of us have no hankering for any¬ 
body’s fleshpots; all we ask is that every man, including our¬ 
selves, shall find his level. We feel as kindly towards the 
poor fellow as ever, but the fact is, not seeing him, we forget 
him. His name disappears from the club list; he cannot 
afford the old haunts and sports; he shares no longer in our 
business nor in our pleasure. It is nothing, abstractly, to 
you or me that whereas he once had ten thousand a year, 
he now cannot spend two, — we did not value him for that, — 
but practically it makes a difference too great for comfort in 
our ideas, our desires, our habits, our talk. It is natural that 
he should drift out of our lives; if, instead of having lost his 
ten thousand income, he had acquired a hundred thousand, 
the probability is he would have drifted out of our lives just 
the same — inevitably joining his hundred-thousand-dollar 
class; and, if we are sensible and humane persons, we should 
have borne him no grudge. Let the cynics snarl as they will, 
the brass pots have gone down in one stream and the earthen¬ 
ware in another since time began, and it is better that they 
should. 

So, then, poor William Ducey, having joined that company 
of the unsuccessful for whom the world has so little room, 
was gradually lost to view. Nobody knew what he did, nor 
how he got along; a man past middle life with no particular 
ability, long in command of an office, and out of the habit of 
hard work, holding somewhat exalted ideas of his own worth 
and importance, it is not strange that he could get no regular 

560 


TIMES CHANGE 


561 


employment. His clerks, salesmen, accountants, the very 
janitor, for that matter, plain, honest fellows, found positions 
readily enough; but you could not suppose such duties or 
such salaries to be suitable for Mr. Ducey. For a while he 
had an office: “Wm. Ducey, Commissions, Hay, Grain, 
Cotton, Coal, etc., Wholesale or Retail, All Orders 
Promptly Attended To,” was advertised in the papers, and 
neatly printed cards with the same legend distributed among 
all our offices. The establishment was down a couple of 
steps into a basement, with a desk and stool, and a fly-blown 
calendar on the wall, and a square of white-and-blue checkered 
oil-cloth, that had come out of the entry of their old Third 
Street house, covering the floor; Burke remembered it when 
he went around one day to leave an order for a car-load of coal, 
and found the commission-merchant paring his nails in soli¬ 
tude over the empty ledger. The ink-well was dry as Sahara, 
with a dead moth in the bottom of it, when we attempted to 
make a note of the transaction; and I think there was an 
assortment of lottery advertisements and sheets of foolscap 
covered with calculations within the desk, as of old. Pres¬ 
ently this place of business disappeared, too, in its turn. Mr. 
Ducey took a desk in various offices one after another, and 
went around soliciting life-insurance. At one time he had an 
agency for some kind of patent clothes-washer; “Sliffy’s 
New Improved Circular-Motion Combined Washboard and 
Wringer used in Conjunction with Sliffy’s Nonpareil Liquid 
Soap is destined to Revolutionize the World of Labor!” 
William would buttonhole you on the street, he would bustle 
into your office in all the waning splendor of his waistcoats 
and cravats, and discourse on Sliffy by the half-hour with 
many suave and elaborate words. I don’t know whether 
he ever sold any washers; Mr. Burke, not being what is called 
a “ family-man,” had no occasion for one himself. The next 
time he met his old employer the latter had a new agency — 
anewsubject for his unfailing eloquence, “Aerated Root-Beer, 
a Substitute For Champagne, Impossibleof Detection, Health¬ 
ful, Stimulating, Non-Intoxicant, Especially Recommended 
to Those whose Principles forbid the Use of Liquor!” The 
firm of Burke and Lewis bought a quantity of this stuff, and 
the Lord knows it may be in the cellars under our old offices 
still! Even the boys wouldn’t drink it. Before long Mr. 


562 


NATHAN BURKE 


Ducey had some other indispensable commodity to promote, 
and we heard no more of the Prohibition tipple. 

These successive ventures might be regarded as so many 
descending stages in William’s effacement. Do you find 
them amusing, oh, brother Philistine ? I have seldom seen 
anything more depressing. I think we were all glad and 
relieved when he came less and less, and finally not at all. He 
stayed about the house and went on errands and did the 
marketing, and took a nap summer afternoons on the porch 
with a newspaper over his head; and was very dignified at 
the head of the table in the black coat and black satin stock 
Mrs. Ducey kept in credit by constant darning, sponging, 
pressing — nobody knows what feminine arts. She would 
not have let him carry up coal or cut the grass even if he had 
wanted to; she liked to see him presiding amongst the board¬ 
ers, affable, profuse in small talk, ready to take a joke or a 
cigar, keeping up a desperate fiction of the pleased host; 
and was as fond, as attentive, and devoted— if a shade more 
dictatorial and managing — as she had ever been in their 
young days of love and success. If we were not so used to it, 
we would see something heroic in the way a good woman will 
support and cocker up the man of her choice, and keep him 
not only comfortable and contented bodily, but secure in his 
own self-respect. She will take up the burden of making a 
living for them both, and with a gallant and smiling duplicity 
cozen him into believing he still carries it; she knows the 
gray mare is the better horse, but she never lets him suspect 
it, and she even closes her own eyes to it. 

And here, I suppose, would have been an ideal opportunity 
to study the effect of adversity on different characters; but 
Burke, having other things on his mind, only remarked at the 
time, not without a certain satisfaction, that the gray mare 
was the better horse, as he suspected years ago when he was a 
boy in Mrs. Ducey’s kitchen. I think Anne Ducey would 
have sooner taken a scrub-brush and pail and gone down on 
her knees to the Court-House floor than “ solicit” people to 
buy trash, and accept their charity under a sounding name. 
Nothing in her life became her one-half so well as the spirit 
and resolution with which she met her troubles; she uttered no 
complaints, no regrets, no reproaches; she asked no favors 
and no sympathy; putting her shoulder to the wheel with the 


TIMES CHANGE 


563 


best possible grace and always turning a brave face to the 
world. Everybody said Mrs. Ducey kept a good table, and 
the boarders were looked after so well that even they them¬ 
selves noticed it! How much planning and worry and count¬ 
ing of pennies and physical labor it took, no mere man could 
guess. When Nathan saw either Mrs. Anne or Francie on 
his walks abroad, they seemed to his unintelligent view as 
dainty and well dressed as ever, though I have since been told 
that their frocks were turned, dyed, pieced, and made over a 
half-dozen times, and their bonnets were the work of their 
own hands. It was before the days of stenographers and 
Woman’s Exchanges, and there was not much a gentlewoman 
could do to keep body and soul together. Miss Blake em¬ 
broidered beautifully and worked on all kinds of fine linen 
and baby clothes, I remember hearing; and she also had a 
class of little girls in “ Early English, ” as she told Nathan, 
meeting him one day, with a parcel of Lilliputian copy-books 
in her hands for the use of her small scholars. 

Ul Early English’?” repeated Burke, mystified. 

“Certainly, ” and she began forthwith to chant with an un¬ 
natural gravity: “‘Can Nat pat the cat? Yes, Nat can pat 
the cat. See Nat — ’” when she had to stop for laughing. 
Pat the cat, forsooth! What Nat would have liked at that 
moment was to pat the girl; but as he could not do that in 
public on the street corner, and as, I dare say, Francie would 
have screamed for the police if he had offered to pat her in 
private, the young gentleman had to go without altogether. 
She should have been teaching her own babies and making 
their clothes, instead of wasting her life on other people’s, he 
thought, looking after her as she tripped cheerfully away. 
About this time, people were beginning to remark how queer 
it was that Francie Blake didn’t marry; all her set of girls 
were wives and mothers now, and she must have had offers. 
Francie was rather attractive, you know, although, of course, 
she was too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, too dark, too fair, 
— too something-or-other, in short, to come up to the stand¬ 
ard of good looks. Yes, it was funny Francie hadn’t married; 
but probably she wouldn’t now, she would want to stay with 
her aunt, — she was a great help to Mrs. Ducey. 

As Miss Blake was the soul of loyalty and truthfulness, and 
as Mr. Burke himself had tolerably stanch principles, it is 


564 


NATHAN BURKE 


not to be supposed that, in fear of Mrs. Ducey’s disapproval, 
they tried to keep her in ignorance of meetings such as the 
last, which occurred quite frequently on the streets and else¬ 
where. She knew all about it, and would listen, displeased 
but silent, when Francie or others mentioned it. Every one 
else had tacitly agreed to let bygones be bygones, and take 
Nathan back into social favor; as sometimes happens with 
those gentlemen who shave their heads, wear agreeably 
striped garments, and practise the lock-step and other health¬ 
ful gymnastics in the retirement of our government homes, 
Burke’s sentence had been partly remitted on account of 
good behavior; and he availed himself of, and was grateful 
for, the ticket of leave. But Mrs. Anne maintained towards 
him a species of armed truce; he could not visit the house, 
but he could take off his hat to her in public places, and she 
would respond with a chilly nod. She would say a civil 
how-do-you-do to him if they chanced to meet under a 
friend’s roof, —for, after all, one must be considerate of one’s 
host and the other guests, — but he was not to presume to 
talk to her. If Francie chose, knowing how her Aunt Anne 
felt, to stop and chat and be friendly and familiar with that 
man, she, Mrs. Ducey, was no tyrant, she always wanted to do 
and tried to do what was right; Francie was not a child any 
more, and if she would not profit by Mrs. Ducey’s experience 
of men and the world, she would have to find out for herself. 
Mrs. Ducey was the last person on earth to dictate to any¬ 
body, or to hold any prejudices. Of course, as everybody 
was speaking to Mr. Burke now, and inviting him to their 
homes, she couldn’t hold back entirely; that would be foolish; 
but she must show, nevertheless, that she could not altogether 
overlook, etc., etc. Thus Mrs. Anne, who, despite her con¬ 
fidence in her knowledge of men and the world, was about as 
wise on those subjects as a kitten, and narrow, obstinate, 
kind-hearted, impulsive, and illogical as only a good woman 
can be. Nathan subscribed to this wordless peace-pact with 
entire good humor, and kept his part of it scrupulously; it 
was not much more absurd than many of our other conven¬ 
tions, when all is said and done. 

One might ask, and, in fact, not a few inquiring minds did 
try to find out, what Mr. Marsh was doing all this time while 
his niece and her family, his own flesh and blood, were having 


TIMES CHANGE 


565 


so hard a struggle to keep their heads above water. The 
historian is obliged to answer, Nothing whatever. I do not 
know that, apart from his purchases of furniture, old George 
ever gave them a penny, or helped them out in any way. He 
seemed to think that he had done all that duty or affection 
required, or prudence allowed; and once, when Burke ven¬ 
tured to suggest that a regular allowance, no matter how 
small, might give poor Mrs. Ducey some feeling of freedom and 
security and be a moral support in her moments of discour¬ 
agement and weariness, retorted very sharply that he didn’t 
see that he was called upon to make any such provision. 

“Em perfectly capable of managing my own affairs and 
of deciding when and where and how and who I’m going to 
give to, sir,” he remarked pointedly; “I don’t need anybody 
to tell me. People think I’m so rich I can afford to support 
Ducey and the whole lot of ’em and never miss the money. 
Well, maybe I am — maybe I am; but it’s never worried me 
any for folks to think me stingy. I’ve never lost a wink o’ 
sleep over that, I guess. I never was much of a hand to 
meddle with other people’s business,” said the old man, fixing 
Burke with an accusing eye; “if Anne wants to keep William 
Ducey squatting around on his behind doing nothing while 
she works her head off, why, I say, let her do it! I haven’t 
any call to interfere giving her money, so she can hand it over 
for him to spend. Where’s her precious boy, for that matter ? 
Why don’t he pitch in, and help his mother a little ? ’S far 
as I know, the most work George’s ever done has been to 
write home for money. Well, he ain’t going to get any of 
mine, not while I’m around to take care of it, anyhow!” 
He went away in a temper, growling to himself; but the 
next day came back to his favorite corner in the office, and 
seemed to have forgotten Burke’s officiousness and the whole 
occurrence. Nat had to acknowledge privately that there 
was some force in the old gentleman’s arguments, testy and 
unreasonable as he showed himself. Why give money for 
Anne’s comfort which would inevitably find its way to the 
bottomless pocket of William Ducey ? As for George, nobody 
ever heard a word from him. 

Nobody ever heard from him direct, that is; nevertheless, 
we were not entirely without news. George was known 
to be somewhere in the South; and as Mrs. Ducey’s relatives 


566 


NATHAN BURKE 


on the mother’s side were scattered thickly about that section 
of the country, from Virginia to Texas, had all visited her 
frequently and were well acquainted in our town, and were, 
moreover, like every Southern family, very strong on kin¬ 
ships and family feeling, items of information about George 
arrived at intervals from widely separated points, — but all 
to the same general effect, — and were received by the com¬ 
munity with much shaking of heads, and that solemn satis¬ 
faction mingled with their real sympathy which is one of the 
few rewards of prophecy. It appeared that almost every¬ 
body, at one time or another, had remarked that George 
Ducey would not turn out well. Now everybody was vin¬ 
dicated ! He had been met or seen at race-courses, gambling- 
houses, unholy localities of all kinds; he flourished in un¬ 
counted bar-rooms; the river captains knew him as well 
as Canada Charlie — was it for the same reasons ? Some¬ 
times he was very richly dressed, lavish and prosperous; 
sometimes at the limits of seediness and pawning his watch. 
In Savannah he stayed at the best hotel, drove a fine trotting 
horse, wore a tremendous diamond stud, and paid pronounced 
attention to Miss Willie Rhett — she was one of those Rhetts, 
you know, a daughter of Sibella Rhett, Sibella Lestrappe that 
was, kin to Cousin Horace Lestrappe at Baton Rouge. 
Departing from that neighborhood rather suddenly (it was 
said), he next was reported — after a long silence — at Vicks¬ 
burg, exceedingly dismal and shabby and borrowing of 
Judge Claiborne — Ambrose Claiborne was a kind of cousin, 
haying married Julie Desha, Stevenson Desha’s first wife’s 
child, etc. Once George disappeared from view for such a 
length of time that Mr. Marsh suggested, with a brutal 
humor, that somebody had better go down to the last city 
whence he had been heard from and bail him out! 

“And I don’t see why you’re laughing. It’s nothing to 
laugh at, sir!” the young person who communicated this to 
Burke rebuked him with great spirit and indignation; “if 
you could see poor Aunt Anne!” 

“ How do you know I’m laughing ? It’s too dark for you to 
see my face,” said the other (he had been grinning a little, 
though!); “anyhow, that wouldn’t keep me from feeling very 
sorry for Mrs. Ducey.” 

“ Well, you were laughing just the same. And oh, Nathan, 


TIMES CHANGE 


567 


it’s pitiful. Her only son, her only child ! And she keeps 
thinking up excuses for him all the time. When Cousin Eliza 
Breckinridge wrote that about her Jimmie seeing George 
lose so much money at that card game — what do you 
call it ? faro ? — in some dreadful disreputable place where 
they played — in Nashville, I think — why, Aunt Anne just 
said, ‘ H’m! And what was Jimmie Breckinridge doing 
there ? ’ It was really a little funny, because nobody could 
say a word — and poor Cousin Eliza thinks Jimmie’s a per¬ 
fect saint. I sometimes feel as if it was better for Aunt 
Anne to hear even stories like that about George than not 
to hear at all, the way it’s been lately. It’s six months, at 
least. The worst of it is, I can’t pretend to think George is 
— is all right, you know.” 

“Why, would that make any difference to Mrs. Ducey? 
Does it hurt her feelings ?” 

“Mercy, of course it does!” said Francie, in surprise; 
“she wants everybody to think about him the way she does. 
And I know it’s horrid, but I can’t — I can’t make believe 
to like him. I ought to, but it’s just that I can’t!” 

“You speak as if it were a very wrong and distressing thing 
not to be able to ‘make believe,” Burke said, and laughed; 
“ is that so necessary ? ” 

“I don’t know. I never thought about it before. I 
suppose we do make believe a lot of the time — women do, 
I mean. We have to, you know,” said the girl, thought¬ 
fully. 

“Have to? Why?” 

She only laughed a little, and repeated, “Why, we just 
have to, you know,” and immediately began to speak of 
other things — how hot it was for so early in June, and 
weren’t the stars lovely and clear to-night ? And she did 
hope there wouldn’t be a crowd at the church, but she 
believed everybody in town was going. This preacher was 
said to be a perfectly wonderfully eloquent man, and had 
Nathan ever heard of such a. thing as revival meetings before ? 

He had not, nor had any one else in those days. The reli¬ 
gious enthusiast, belonging to no denomination, preaching 
in any church, or, failing that, in any theatre, on any street 
corner, fervent, florid, emotional, working his hearers and 
himself to strange ecstacies of belief and repentance and 


568 


NATHAN BURKE 


exalted resolve — this was a new figure among us. He was, 1 
suppose, a sort of ancestor of the present-day Salvation Army 
worker; his rough-hewn creed suited all men; his own hon¬ 
esty and sincerity could not be doubted, spite of his extra¬ 
ordinary claptrap methods. Without question there are 
many of all classes who must cry — yowl, bawl, out of the 
depths, at the top of their lungs, who come before the Lord 
with rejoicings fit to deafen the universe, who cannot be sure 
of their faith and hope without making a prodigious stir 
about it; even in this sophisticated day, our neighbor is 
constantly “getting religion” and being, for a while at any 
rate, let us hope, bettered by the process. And that warm 
June evening, when Miss Blake and Mr. Burke — having 
met by the purest accident, of course, at the corner just below 
the Ducey house, where the gentleman happened to be stroll¬ 
ing about after tea — when these two young people walked 
up to Zion Chapel, on Town Street, to hear the revivalist 
preacher that everybody was making such a fuss over, they 
fell in with a number of other pilgrims, and heard some re¬ 
markable tales of conversions and changes of heart. The 
Reverend Mr. Badger drew enormous crowds, not one of 
whom knew why he went; it was hot — there was nothing else 
to do — curiosity—idleness — desire for some sort of excite¬ 
ment, — every one had an excuse. Nat Burke went because 
Francie chose to go, and for no other earthly reason; he was 
not given to pious exercises, particularly of such a noisy and 
vehement kind. It is more than thirty-five years, and Mr. 
Burke has never been to another revival meeting; this was 
his first and last. But that is not the reason why he remem¬ 
bers it so well. 

Zion Chapel, when they reached it, was tightly packed 
with very warm, fanning people; and they would have been 
glad to find seats in some quiet corner whence escape would 
be easy in case the conversions were effected with too much 
vigor. “ People get to crying and going on like everything, 
somebody was telling me,” said Francie, whispering — quite 
unnecessarily, for every one was talking freely without regard 
to the sacred character of the building and occasion; to 
approach the Deity with a certain informality appeared to be 
part of the Reverend Badger's method. They recognized 
many acquaintances in the crowd; and, unluckily, some one 


TIMES CHANGE 


569 


who was officiating as volunteer usher, catching sight of 
Burke, came bustling and insisted on dragging them to a 
prominent seat in the front, from which they “could see 
everything,” as he heartily assured them. 

“We don’t care about seeing everything,” said Nathan, 
annoyed — the more so, perhaps, as there had been some 
nodding and nudging at sight of Miss Blake in his company, 
and he saw the ready color deepening in her cheeks; “we 
may not want to stay for all the — the exercises, you 
know — ” 

It was to no avail; down they had to sit, with the feeling 
that two hundred pairs of eyes were fastened on their backs; 
and, to make matters worse, Mrs. Ducey herself came in a 
few minutes later, and, being escorted to another conspicuous 
position not far off, passed them with the slightest possible 
salutation to Burke, and a look of icy surprise at Francie’s 
choice of companion. I don’t know why both the young 
people should have felt guilty and conscience-stricken, and 
wished they were anywhere but in this house of God. You 
would have thought that the congregation was gathered 
together for another purpose than to observe their behavior; 
and, indeed, it is very likely they attracted less attention than 
they supposed. 

“I used to know a man named Badger once,” said Nat, 
trying awkwardly to ease the situation; “it’s rather an un¬ 
common name. But he wasn’t a preacher — anything but! ” 
the young man smiled at the recollection; “he was an actor.” 

“Oh, was he?” said Francie, a little exaggerating her 
interest; “this one wasn’t always a preacher, either, they say. 
He got converted. He tells about it himself. He was lead¬ 
ing an awful life, I believe he says. Maybe it’s the same 
man!” 

“Oh, hardly,” Burke said tolerantly; “the Badger I 
knew was no such sinner. He was a very good sort of 
fellow.” 

“But an actor, you know —” 

“Well, of course he lived in a hand-to-mouth, harum- 
scarum way. But there wasn’t anything wrong with him. 
Is that the melodeon ? Is that a hymn they’re beginning ? ” 

“Yes, it’s ‘Sinners, turn! Why will ye die?’ — don’t 
you know it ? We ought to stand up — at least they would 


570 


NATHAN BURKE 


in our church/’ Francie says, looking around with the faint, 
unconscious superiority of a good Episcopalian. And pres¬ 
ently we do stand up, all of us; the chorus bursts out, its 
great sound moving and uplifting even to Burke, who did 
not know the words, and could no more sing than an owl. 
But he liked to hear Francie’s clear soprano, sweet and 
weak, no matter what the tune — they all seemed much alike 
to him. “Sinners, turn! ...” Nathan, directing his 
eyes towards the — the stage, I had almost called it! — the 
elevated dais, whereon were arranged a desk and chair and 
tumbler of drinking water, according to the plain tastes of 
the Zion Chapel-ites, beheld with a start that tall, lank, 
dramatically monastic figure, arrayed in a flowing black 
coat, and incredibly solemn black trousers, stalking across 
to the desk, standing there with folded arms, in the best of 
Hamlet styles, surveying his audience with a mystic gaze, 
melancholy, rapt, remote! The very fact that Badger’s 
name had been so recently on his tongue only added to 
Burke’s astonishment; he was too astonished to be amused. 
Even the instant picture of Badger as last seen, his face 
masked with chalk and daubs of red paint, clad in a night¬ 
gown-like garment, gambolling merrily about the sawdust 
ring on a spotted wooden hobby-horse in grotesque parody 
of the World-renowned Bounding Jockey whose Feats 
have delighted the Crowned Heads of Europe, Ladies and 
Gentlemen — even that contrast suggested nothing comic. 
And after all, thought Burke, recovering a little, it was four 
or five years since, a time long enough to work many radical 
changes — of heart, as of everything else. He gave the 
actor credit for entire sincerity; Badger was an honest man 
— a very simple, confiding, enthusiastic fellow. If he was 
not exactly the stuff of martyrs, and would probably have 
quailed before the cannibal kettle, he was none the less a 
thorough and purposeful convert, as his whole words and 
manner testified when he began his address. And if it was 
plainly agreeable to him to hold, for once, undisputed, the 
centre of the stage, he was not the first performer to fancy 
himself greatly in this particular line. 

In truth, Mr. Badger’s stage experience — upon which he 
touched with sombre regret and warning — had fitted him 
admirably for this kind of public speaking, where a great, 


TIMES CHANGE 


571 


resonant voice, trained to distinctness and emphatic expres¬ 
sion, a certain freedom, sweep, and accuracy of gesture, 
and some handy acquaintance with the classic dramas were 
unusual enough and not to be despised. As the oration 
progressed, from the sobs and sniffs and exclamations and 
movement here and there amongst the benches, Nathan 
perceived that the time-honored devices of melodrama 
were taking effect — have they not always been ten times 
as successful as the closest-reasoned argument ? Badger 
chose for his text the story of the Prodigal Son, which he read 
from the Bible with infinite niceties of elocution. He him¬ 
self had known (he said) a youth who might have been its 
hero; they had met (alas, my friends!) amid the profane 
pleasures of the camp at Matamoros — the camp of the 
American army during the late struggle. And here the 
speaker drew a vivid picture of the vicious delights of that 
residence, which caused one of his hearers to smile a little 
covertly. The marble halls of the Spaniard, his gilded 
churches, monuments of intolerance and iniquity, the riotous 
feasting, the luscious wines, the seductions of Mexican beauty 
— Burke was amazed to find what he had lived with and 
escaped; most people would have thought Matamoros a 
sickly, dirty, comfortless hole where vice might be as rank 
as Badger described it, but certainly not so alluring. Marble 
halls, indeed! Nat recalled the “Grand Spanish Saloon” 
with an inward laugh. He must get hold of Badger and ask 
him about the Jeffersons, he thought. 

. . And when do we next see this young man George, 
my friends?” inquired the orator, pursuing his narrative 
in a voice sunk to the note supposed to represent horror 
dashed with pity, and gazing ominously all about. “Where 
do we now see young George ?” says Badger, a little louder, 
and recoiling a step; “where do we find—” and at this 
instant, his eye, roaming dramatically over the faces nearest 
him, lit on Burke, and recognized him at once! “Where 
do we — um — ah — Shall I tell you, my friends?” 
said Badger, momentarily taken aback and stammering; 
then he swept on. We saw George at the gaming¬ 
table ! We saw the heaps of gold — a word which the 
convert contrived to enunciate with a terrified relish, as if 
he at once felt and feared its deadly attractions — the 


572 


NATHAN BURKE 


players’ clutching fingers and greedy eyes; we witnessed the 
losers’ mad despair, and the winners’ madder orgies. It 
was as good as a novel any day, having Badger tell us about 
George! This unfortunate young person was now in full 
career on the downward path; I forget what happened to 
him at the gaming-table — win or lose, the effect was 
equally deleterious, as our preacher was careful to make 
plain; but, at the last, after many such experiences, his 
morals being by now thoroughly undermined, George, 
reeling to his quarters at a disreputable hour in the morning, 
haggard, bloodshot, and penniless, — we had an awful 
picture of his appearance, — committed the final act which 
should have plunged him, irredeemably, into the outer dark¬ 
ness. “Dishonored and depraved, weakened and corrupted, 
he forgot not alone his duty to his family and himself, not 
alone the principles in which he had been trained, not alone,” 

— half a dozen other things, — “but even that feeling which 
is at once the simplest and most sacred of the human bosom 

— the LOVE OF COUNTRY!” Badger announced thun¬ 
derously in the biggest capitals. “False to his word, false 
to the land of his birth, false to the power that under Heaven 
had protected his infancy, he deserted. . . . Yes, my 
friends, and he did more. He took the money of his com¬ 
rade, the man to whom he owed a thousand kindnesses, 
his more than brother, the friend that lay sleeping trustfully 
by his side, he stole that friend’s pay and deserted. . . .” 
And what else George did at this particular juncture 
Burke missed, for he had that instant recognized with a shock 
of surprise and apprehension what mutual acquaintance of 
his and Badger’s was masquerading, as it were, under all this 
fustian. He gave so violent a start that Francie noticed it, 
and looked at him, wonderingly. Nat reddened under her 
eyes in his confusion. It was quite half a minute before he 
renumbered that neither Mrs. Ducey nor anybody else in the 
assembly could possibly know of whom the preacher was 
talking, and began to breathe more freely. There sat Mrs. 
Ducey, almost within reach, unconcerned, her whole atten¬ 
tion fastened on the speaker, a good deal excited by his 
oratorical arts. And when Badger finally brought George 
through devious ways to a beautiful and edifying death-bed 
repentance, Anne, like the rest, among whom Badger himself 


TIMES CHANGE 


573 


was not the least moved, was weeping openly into her pocket- 
handkerchief. I believe a good many “went forward,” 
if that is the proper phrase, and were converted in due cere¬ 
mony that evening. It was very late before we got away. 

(After this evening I never saw Badger again. He called at the 
office next day, when I happened to be out, and went away leaving 
a note with many expressions of regret and earnest wishes for my 
spiritual health and well-being. He continued his evangelical career 
for some years, settling down at last in Chicago, where he had a 
“Temple” or “Tabernacle,” to which all creeds were welcomed; 
and died there in ’72 of a lung trouble brought on by cold and exposure 
during his pastoral labors at the time of the great fire. — General 
Burke’s Note.) 


CHAPTER XVIII 
In which we hear Various News 

“ What made you jump that way ?” Francie asked, as they 
waited between the seats for the crowd to thin out. It was 
a long business, further retarded by everybody stopping for 
a moment’s chat with everybody else; there had been chairs 
placed in all the aisles, and the attendants were trying to 
clear them away with a great rattling and banging, handing 
them about over people’s heads. Two or three of the elders 
or other eminent members of the church were consulting 
together on the platform; the converts had somehow dis¬ 
appeared; a surprising air of business and bustle replaced the 
late hysterical elevation; and Burke overheard two ladies, 
whose eyes were quite red from recent emotion, earnestly 
exchanging views on the best methods of putting up spiced 
cherries, as they edged their way past him. 

“Why did you give such a jump right there a little before 
the end?” repeated Francie. 

“Did I jump? I — I just happened to think of some¬ 
thing.” 

She gave him a sharp look, and then suddenly and most 
irrelevantly inquired, “Is that the Mr. Badger you used to 
know?” 

“Yes, it’s the same man.” 

“Oh, it was at Matamoros you knew him, then?” 

“Yes.” 

“Don’t you want to stop and speak to him?” suggested 
the girl; “I can go on home with Aunt Anne —” 

“Oh, I can see Badger any time,” said Burke, to whom this 
arrangement did not especially appeal. “The revival 
meetings are going to keep on for a week, aren’t they ? We 
were good friends in his actor days, you know, but maybe 
now he’s a minister he won’t be so glad to meet me again —” 

574 


WE HEAR VARIOUS NEWS 


575 


Before he could add any more excuses, Mrs. Ducey came up 
with her face of calm and ladylike disapproval. She had 
been talking to some one; there were little knots of friends 
standing by; and the reverend gentleman, his labors ap¬ 
parently over for the day, now issued forth from some re¬ 
tiring room and joined the elders at the foot of the platform 
steps with affable discourse. 

“You will come with me now, Francie. It’s time we were 
going home,” said Mrs. Anne, overlooking Burke this time 
completely. The young man dropped back embarrassed; 
but Francie held out her hand to him in spite of a dagger 
glance from her aunt. “Good night, Mr. Burke,” she said 
clearly and resolutely; and at the sound of the name Badger 
turned around. 

I think he hesitated for one second. The color came 
brightly into his face, which had got to looking rather thin, 
pale, and ascetic in accordance with this new role the honest 
fellow was playing. Perhaps the hobby-horse and Pantaloon 
costume flashed into his mind. But it was only for a second, 
and then he came running over eagerly, and seized Burke’s 
hand with genuine warmth, forgetting all his innocent theat¬ 
rical tricks. People standing near looked on interested. 

“Captain Burke — it is Captain Burke? I thought I 
couldn’t be mistaken. I saw you when I was speaking. 
Don’t you remember me — Badger? Ed Badger? I’m 
a good deal changed — at least I hope lam — but don’t you 
remember me ? ” 

“Indeed, I remember you very well. You were mighty 
kind to me when I was sick at Matamoros,” said the other, 
heartily. Badger made a gesture of denial. 

“That was before I had seen the Light,” he said with a 
great deal of simplicity and conviction; “I’m a different 
man now, Captain. You’d find me different. Some of these 
kind friends were here the other night when I told them about 
it. It’s an awful thought to me now that for thirty years 
of my life I was a servant of sin. But I’m not too late — 
I’m not too late to save my own soul and help save my 
neighbor’s, I trust, if the strength is given me,” said Badger, 
solemnly. There was no hint of cant about him. I am sure 
he must always have been no more nor less of a sinner than 
the most of us — an average man. There was something a 


576 


NATHAN BURKE 


little touching and also a little foolish in his sad self-abase¬ 
ment; and I am afraid he was not nearly so interesting and 
likable to Burke as in the gay, haphazard days of his un- 
regeneracy — so perverted are our tastes. Nat would have 
liked to hear some news of Mrs. Jefferson and Joe, but found 
his questions inappropriate to this style of conversation, and 
we might all have begun to feel a certain awkwardness if 
somebody had not intervened to present Mrs. Ducey and 
Miss Blake. 

“Mrs. Drake — Miss — ah — Lewis—” said Badger, 
missing the names, but making a brave stagger at them, in 
the surrounding noise; he shook their hands with immense 
warmth, however — ministerial cordiality copied from some 
noted evangelist. With all his sincere conviction he was as 
conscious of his pose as ever he could have been in his stage 
days, and played the part with an equal care. It was a 
strange thing to see in this scatter-brained fellow who nat¬ 
urally, as Burke knew, kept so light a rein on his thoughts 
and speech. Mrs. Ducey beginning to make some enthu¬ 
siastic comment on the sermon, he interrupted her gently: 
“Oh, no, don’t say that, Madame. A man who hasn’t 
any training can’t do much as a speaker. I am no orator as 
Bru — that is, I mean, all I can do is to speak right out from 
my heart. As Saint Paul says, ‘ I come not with excellency 
of speech or of wisdom.’ I find the best I can do to bring 
people to God is just to tell my own experience, something 
of what I’ve seen and known and felt myself. It’s — it’s the 
kind of example, you know, that’s sometimes far better 
than precept. If every sinner had somebody to say to him, 
‘Look, brother, this is what you’re doing—’ ‘Sister, this 
is where you’re going—’” 

“ Like that poor young man you were telling us about this 
evening,” said Mrs. Ducey, sympathetically; “I suppose if 
in the beginning he could have seen what he was coming to, 
none of it would have happened.” 

“Why, was it all true? I thought, part of the time, it 
was just what might have happened, you know — I mean I 
didn’t understand that you had — had seen every bit of it,” 
said Francie, innocently. Her aunt looked in horror at this 
questioning of the reverend word; but Badger, a little dis¬ 
countenanced, hastily explained that while the main facts 


WE HEAR VARIOUS NEWS 


577 


were true, he had used what he called “— um — er — poet¬ 
ical or rhetorical license to — to make the moral stronger. 
To bring out the lesson, you understand. I — in point of 
fact, I don’t know how the young man ended,” he acknowl¬ 
edged in some confusion; “I hope and trust he repented. 
I never saw him after he deserted.” 

“Oh, he didn’t die, then?” Mrs. Ducey asked, distinctly 
disappointed. 

“Well — er — no. At one time I heard that he was taken 
and hanged by our troops for deserting, but that report 
was afterwards contradicted—” 

“ Hanged ! How awful! ” 

“‘The wages of Sin is Death,’ Madame,” said Badger, 
solemnly. “Only,” he added with some embarrassment, 
“I was about to say that I understood quite authoritatively 
that Ducey wasn’t hanged after all. Did you know any¬ 
thing about that, Burke ? Somebody told me you got him 
off — got him pardoned, I mean, you know,” he explained to 
the ladies; “how was that, anyhow?” 

“Wh-what?” stammered the other, off his guard, and 
totally unprepared for this turn. Enough has been said 
throughout this history to show that in such an emergency 
Mr. Burke was anything but quick or ready. “Hey ? Er — 
what — um — ?” said he, aghast. 

“Why, you knew him? — you knew all along who I was 
talking about, didn’t you?” said Badger. He flushed up, 
glancing from one to another, evidently thinking he was 
being doubted. That he ought never to have mentioned 
the names of his “examples” in this or any other public 
company did not Once seem to occur to him. “Of course 
you remember Ducey — George Ducey, you know. I’m 
sure Burke ought to remember him,” he added to the others; 
“it was his money the poor misguided young man took. 
As I was saying, all the main incidents of the story are true, 
Mrs. Drake, and were well known at the time. It has always 
struck me as a particularly instructive example of the gradual 
decay of principle when not governed by Christian — ah 
— by Christianity, in short—” 

He kept on talking in his distinct, carrying voice, uncon¬ 
scious of the sudden, blank silence that had fallen on as; 
he was used to being heard silently; at least a dozen people 

2 p 


578 


NATHAN BURKE 


were within hearing, listening alertly, with curious looks 
divided between Mrs. Ducey and Burke himself, who, feeling, 
somehow, as if all this were his fault, looked more guilty and 
wretched probably than George Ducey ever felt. To-morrow 
the story would be all over the town, with who knows how 
many embellishments — as if the poor mother didn’t have 
enough to bear with George already and her other troubles! 
Nat even caught a sly smile here and there; his blood quick¬ 
ened with anger at the sight. He went up to Mrs. Ducey 
and offered her his arm; she took and clung to it; all the color 
had gone trembling out of her face; she looked an old woman. 
“Take me home, please,” was all she said, and Burke got her 
out by one of the side doors into the fresh air and kind dark¬ 
ness. They had gone perhaps half a square when Francie 
came hurrying lightly after and caught up with them, out 
of breath, but with a kind of composure and resolution in 
her firm young step. 

“What did you say?” her aunt asked abruptly, in a harsh 
voice. 

“It’s all right. I told them it was the heat, and you were 
dreadfully tired before you came,” said Francie, reassuringly; 
“Mr. Badger doesn’t know anything. I made it all right, 
Aunt Anne. Don’t worry.” And this cheap device, which 
could have deceived nobody, seemed to satisfy and tranquil¬ 
lize both women! Mrs. Ducey spoke once again during this 
walk. 

“Is it true?” she asked the young man harshly and 
abruptly as before. 

“It is true,” said Burke. 

They got back to the house somehow, after a walk which 
seemed to Burke interminable, like the pointless journeyings 
of a dream. The lights were out and most of the porches 
deserted as they came along; and I suppose all the boarders 
had gone to bed, too, the place was so silent. It was the 
new house to which they had moved after the catastrophe 
in William’s business; Burke had never set foot within it 
before. “Ring the bell; Mr. Ducey must be up — he’ll let 
us in — he ought to be told — ring the bell,” said Anne, in a 
kind of hysterical impatience. 

Burke obeyed her; but after an untold amount of bell¬ 
ringing, it was not William who came downstairs and opened 


WE HEAR VARIOUS NEWS 


570 


to us, but one of the boarders, a young fellow whom Nat knew, 
a clerk in one of the shops — we heard him making profane 
remarks in an undertone as he sought for matches to light the 
hall lamp. And being lightly attired in a shirt and trousers, 
he skipped upstairs in a panic before Frances petticoats in 
the doorway. 

“Mr. Henderson — isn’t that Mr. Henderson?” the lady 
of the house called after him. “ Where’s Mr. Ducey? Will 
you knock on the bedroom door and tell him to come down, 
please ? Tell him I want him.” 

“He ain’t in,” said the youth, modestly retiring behind the 
bannisters in the upper hall; “somebody came for him, and 
he went out after you went away, and he hasn’t got back 
yet.” 

“Went out? Do you know where he went?” 

“No. Up to the revival, I guess, though. I heard ’em 
say something about it.” He vanished. 

“I — I wanted William to be here — I wanted him to 
know,” said Mrs. Ducey, feverishly. “He ought to know 
right away. You ought to tell him yourself.” 

“Why, what should I tell him?” said Burke. “There is 
nothing for me to tell—” 

“He ought to know about — about George. If it’s all 
true what that man said about him — about his taking your 
pay, and all. You ought to have told us before. I don’t 
see why you didn’t tell us. Of course George just took your 
money with the intention of borrowing it, Mr. Burke. He 
never in the wide world would have — have taken it any 
other way. He must have forgotten to tell you about it 
afterwards. He’s nothing but a young boy, and — and his 
character’s not formed yet — you couldn’t expect him to 
know anything about business obligations — he hasn’t 
had any training or experience. But you ought to have told 
us, and Mr. Ducey would have seen that you were paid back, 
of course.” 

“There’s one thing you can’t ever pay him back, though,” 
interrupted Francie, with a heightened color, and speaking 
in a hard little way, entirely foreign to Burke’s knowledge 
of her; “that’s for keeping George from being hung — the 
man that stole from him and told shameful stories about 
him — stories that you believed. Nathan saved his life, 


580 


NATHAN BURKE 


and never let anybody know a thing about it. And you 
thought you were too good to speak to him. You ought to 
go down on your knees and ask him to forgive you!” 

“Francie!” cried her aunt. “How dare you speak to me 
like that ? How dare you ? ” 

“It's the truth, and you know it,” said the girl, savagely; 
“ George never told the truth in his life, and you know that, 
too! How do you feel about it now? You’ve gone and 
scattered his mean lies all over everywhere —” 

“Oh, hush! Francie, hush!” said Burke, sickened at the 
violence of these two naturally gentle creatures, shamed 
to the soul to behold them quarrelling over him; “it’s all over 
and done with. Let it be. Calling George names can’t 
do me any good. You may say I saved George’s life if you 
choose to put it that way. All I did was to go to General 
Scott, and try to get him to let the boy off — that’s every¬ 
thing I did. Any man that knew George would have done 
that much in sheer humanity — Jim Sharpless would have 
done it, if I hadn’t been there. It’s nothing to make a rum¬ 
pus about —” 

“You took care of him afterwards in Mexico City. Much 
thanks you got for that!” said Francie, bitterly. Tears 
sprang into her eyes. “They’re unjust to you, Nathan; 
they’re mean and unjust, everybody is. They — they 
haven’t any sense. And you j-just t-take it all, and never 
do a th-thing!” she sobbed. There was something as ma¬ 
ternal in her anger and distress over him as in Mrs. Ducey’s 
over George. 

“ I’m sure I have always tried to do right and be just,” said 
Anne, trembling. “It’s not my fault if I didn’t know about 
some things. I couldn’t know unless somebody told me, 
and nobody did. I couldn’t help that. I’m very grateful 
to you, Mr. Burke, for all you did for my son, now that I 
know about it. I don’t think it was quite fair to us, though, 
to keep us in ignorance all this time. I think it was your 
duty to tell us. And he was jpaid for all George’s bills in 
Mexico City, Francie, because I sent the money myself. 
I sent it to George to give you —” 

“Oh, sent it to George!” said Francie, with scorn; “I don’t 
believe Nathan ever saw a cent of it. Did you?” 

“Why, I —I — ” 


WE HEAR VARIOUS NEWS 


581 


“That’s enough,” the girl said dryly; “you never could 
tell stories, Nathan; it’s no use your trying.” 

Mrs. Ducey looked at him, and did not challenge this 
judgment. “I never owed anybody a penny in my life 
that I didn’t try to pay,” said the poor woman. She dropped 
into a chair and put up her shaking hands to her face. They 
used to be pretty little hands, and it gave Burke a pang to see 
them now calloused and discolored by the work of these last 
hard years. “I always pay when I can — I’ve tried so hard. 
How much was it, Nathan ? A captain’s pay is forty dollars 
a month, isn’t it ? And how much was the other — the rest ? 
I haven’t the money, you know, but you — you might come 
and b-board it out,” said poor Mrs. Ducey, with sobs. 

If the young man had been a Shylock, she could have made 
no more abject an appeal. It was pitiful, it was grotesque, 
it was exasperating. Nathan could hardly comprehend what 
all this tragic feminine fuss was about; their distress of mind 
touched him unutterably, but it appeared perfectly unrea¬ 
sonable. He wished from his heart William Ducey would 
come; then, at least, they could talk about it, man to man, 
if the family were so determined on talking, and get at some 
sort of understanding. It was, of course, very hard for Mrs. 
Ducey to learn these additional unpalatable facts about her 
son; but if he, Burke, had chosen to overlook George’s 
obliquities towards himself all these years, why should they 
take up the question now ? He wanted nothing so much as 
to leave it all dead and buried, but they would resurrect it in 
spite of him! They ought to accept George for the worthless 
thing he was, as Burke and everybody else had accepted 
him long ago. Why shoulder his obligations ? Why worry 
about him at all ? Yet, of course, it was natural — it must 
be natural — somebody had to look out for George, he caught 
himself thinking. In the whole of his own hard-working and, 
I hope, honest life nobody had ever looked out for Nat Burke, 
and nobody ever would — but somebody must look out for 
George! Somebody — unthanked and unrewarded — is al¬ 
ways looking out for all the weak-kneed; and such is the 
eternal responsibility of the strong we forget that, if eternal, 
it is also wholly irrational. 

“Why, I don’t want your money, Mrs. Ducey,” he said 
at last, looking down at her, perplexed and infinitely sorry. 


582 


NATHAN BURKE 


“I did very little, only what was natural and what anybody 
else would have done for George; and I didn’t do it for 
pay. As to what he owed me, the poor boy was most kind 
about nursing me when I was sick, and didn’t do it with any 
idea of pay, either, I am sure. So can’t we call the score 
even? Let’s have no more talk about it. You believe, and 
you have every right to believe, certain stories about me, and 
you don’t want me in your house — as a boarder or any 
other way. Very well; let it be so. Nobody on earth 
could think it your duty to make such a sacrifice, and I 
wouldn’t accept it, anyhow. I don’t see that what you have 
just heard need make any difference in our relations. If I 
had saved George’s life a dozen times over, I should still be 
the same Nathan Burke, whose own life you think to have 
been so corrupt that you hesitate to speak to him. Amen. 
Let us each go our way as we did before, and forget this,” 
concluded Burke, looking about for his hat, and a little 
abashed, all at once, to notice what a lengthy oration he had 
been delivering. 

Mrs. Ducey wiped her eyes with a fierce movement. 
“No, you shan’t go — you shan’t go out of this house 
till you’ve been paid,” she said with so much of her 
old headlong obstinacy that Nathan could scarcely keep 
back his smile. “I’ve always done right, as far as I knew,” 
said Anne, vindictively; “here — take this — it’ll pay you 
and more, I know, because it cost a great deal when William 
gave it to me,” she resolutely gulped back a sob. “ Take it — 
take it—!” She detached some small object from the 
collar of her gown, and held it out to the bewildered young 
man with a vehement gesture — thrust it into his face, in 
fact. 

Francie cried out: “Oh, don't, Aunt Anne — please don’t ! 
Nathan is — he isn’t — oh, don’t you know — can’t you 
understand —” her voice shattered into sobs; she shrank 
up against the wall in shame and distress. 

“What is it ? What do you want me to do with this ?” 
said Burke, helplessly, and took the thing — it was a piece of 
jewelry, as he now saw — from Mrs. Ducey’s hand mechani¬ 
cally, and stood between them, holding it, with a questioning 
look. 

“It’s my opal pin — my pin with the diamonds around it, 


WE HEAR VARIOUS NEWS 


583 


Nathan,” said Mrs. Ducey, tremulously. “Don’t you re¬ 
member it ? It’s real, you know. I — I don’t know how 
much it’s worth, but —” 

Burke stared at it; he remembered it well. “How do you 
happen to have it ?” he asked in a strange voice. 

“I couldn’t give it up — I just couldn't — at the sale, you 
know. I thought I might keep that much, anyhow. It’s 
my very own — I didn’t have to give up my own things,” 
said Mrs. Ducey, on the verge of more tears. “Anyway, I’m 
glad I kept it now. I’d rather pay you than anybody.” 

“But I thought this had been stolen. Isn’t this the pin 
you said Nance stole ?” said Nat, slowly. 

At the sound of that unlucky name, there was a startled 
pause; Anne looked in alarm as if she thought Burke might 
proceed to some indecent discourse. And then Francie said 
hurriedly: “Nathan, it was never stolen at all. It had 
slipped down somehow behind the mantelpiece, and we found 
it when the men were fixing the new mantel — when Aunt 
Anne had that room done over. There was a big crack 
behind the old one — they had to plaster it up. It was 
while you were away — five years ago. While you were 
in Mexico.” 

After another silence, Burke said, “I don’t want this, 
Mrs. Ducey,” and laid it on the table beside her. 

She looked at him in a sort of uncomprehending and 
baffled vexation. “Oh, mercy, what do you want, then?” 
she ejaculated impatiently, forgetting that she had been 
repeatedly assured he wanted nothing whatever. “It’s 
enough to try the patience of Job! I suppose you won’t 
take the pin because of — because of Nance Darnell. Of 
course she didn’t steal it — I was mistaken about that. 
I’ve never had a chance to talk to you since we found it, or 
I’d have told you. I’m always ready to acknowledge when 
I’ve made a mistake, I hope. But, after all, it’s just as well 
things happened as they did, and I let her go. If it wasn’t 
my pin, it would have been something else, maybe worse. 
The way she turned out proves that. I always had a kind of 
feeling that there was a bad streak in her, but I fought 
against it; I wanted to help her. When I heard about — 
about how she was — was behaving down there in Mexico, 
I was thankful I hadn’t kept her in the house any longer. 


584 


NATHAN BURKE 


I’m speaking pretty plain, I suppose, but I can’t help it. 
You forced it on me.” 

Nathan did not answer. What should he have said ? 
And in a moment a sudden slamming of the gate and rush 
of steps up the walk startled them all. Mrs. Ducey was still 
talking, Francie gazing at Burke with a frightened look on 
her pale, tear-stained face, the opal pin winking with its 
uncanny fires from its place under the direct lamplight, 
when William burst upon them, breathing hard, his waist¬ 
coat undone, the perspiration glistening on his pallid fore¬ 
head. 

“Anne! Good Heavens, where have you been? I’ve 
run all over town looking for you. I hadn’t any idea you’d 
be at home, till somebody said they’d seen you starting for 
the house. You’ve got to come at once — I hope it’s not 
too late already. The people sent up to tell us Uncle George 
is dying — he’s had a stroke and he can’t live. Vardaman’s 
there, and he says the old man can’t live. Come along ! ” 

“Uncle George? He can’t live?” echoed Mrs. Ducey, 
blankly. “Goodness !” She gathered up her shawl me¬ 
chanically. “Do button your vest, William; it looks so 
horrid that way!” 


CHAPTER XIX 

In which Mr. Marsh’s Will is Opened 

When Jimmie Sharpless and I were in Mexico together, at 
Tampico and Puebla and whenever the army happened to 
encamp near a town of any size, we had a habit of visiting 
its cemeteries, not, it should be said, for the sake of the moral 
effect, or because our tastes were anywise morbid, but out of 
the same curiosity that led us to the market-houses and 
churches, and finding the graveyards twice as significant and 
interesting as either of these latter. They were all of one 
forbidding pattern, utilitarian, ungraced by sentiment. In 
the wide barrenness of that land one would have supposed 
that His acre might be spared to God without loss; yet I 
doubt if any Mexican place of burial was that spacious. 
Adobe walls ten feet high and on one side always six feet 
thick shut them in; not a flower bloomed there, not a blade 
of grass dressed the hard, dusty mounds. The population 
was so crowded in these grim democracies one soon ceased 
to be surprised that a number of the dead were deposited 
in cells constructed in that thick section of the wall I have 
spoken of; and the outer end of the hole being sealed up with 
a tablet recording the name and age of the deceased with 
(generally) a pious sentence commending his soul to Provi¬ 
dence, you might behold them docketed and pigeon-holed, 
tier on tier, dreadfully resembling a post-office. “But I am 
afraid some of the mail will never reach its address!” Jim 
said sardonically, examining the inscriptions. We learned 
that the cells were rented or leased by the year, like any 
habitation of the living, the deceased leaving some provision 
for it in his testament, or laying the obligation on his heirs. 
Nothing ever changes in Mexico; the cemeteries must have 
been there in the selfsame spot for centuries; and, not know¬ 
ing whether this queer custom was an inheritance from 
Spaniards or Aztecs or some older civilization still, Burke 
used to search the stone labels for their most ancient dates. 
He had a fancy to discover the oldest tenant, and a tablet of a 

585 


586 


NATHAN BURKE 


hundred or so years back would have moved him like the 
tombs in Westminster Abbey. Lo, seek as he would, there 
was not one antedating the last generation! Sharpless, 
however, upon this singularity being pointed out, was ready 
with an explanation. “I inquired,” he said, “of a one-eyed 
gentleman who officiated as sexton at one of these places. 
It seems they turn ’em out if the rent isn’t paid. They 
turn out Don Ramon de Silva’s old rattletrap skeleton and 
his mouldering old coffin — he is several months in arrears — 
and make room for the late Don Manuel Carlos Derecho y 
Izquierda, just dead the other day of the small-pox — may he 
rest in peace! He will, as long as his son, young Don Man¬ 
uel, doesn’t forget the rent. But when Manuel’s son 
Manuel comes along, what then ? Shall a man be forever 
footing the bills of an old party who died before he was born? 
Grandfather Manuel’s tastes were too expensive; he had no 
idea of what the cost of living would be in thirty or forty 
years, or he’d have thought twice about the cost of dying, 
by George! I fear old Don Manuel will be evicted in his 
turn. I asked my one-eyed friend what became of the de¬ 
faulting tenants ? ‘ Senor,’ says he, ‘ they burn them. They 

burn them with kindlings, at night, so it shall offend nobody. 
But, Senor, nobody ever remembers about them, or comes to 
inquire.’ We do these things better at home, Burke. We 
forget our parents decently, without any disagreeable pub r 
licity. And Pa doesn’t saddle any such unwarrantable tax 
on us; he hasn’t left us anymore than we can scratch along 
comfortably on, as it is. We buy a lot in the cemetery — as 
handsome a lot as there is — and we look after it, sir; we 
have the grass cut every time there’s a funeral in the family! 
Did any man ever know the way to his family lot ? For¬ 
tunately there is always a plat in the cemetery office. We 
wouldn’t think of turning out that skinflint Jones’s grand¬ 
father and putting Cousin Joshua in his place; and it’s pretty 
late in the day to burn Jones’s grandfather — that operation 
must have begun long ago. Oh, unquestionably we do our 
duty, and we ought to be thankful that we are so much 
better than our neighbor Mexicans.” 

It once or twice occurred to Burke to wonder what would 
have happened if old George Marsh had been subject to the 


MR. MARSH’S WILL IS OPENED 


587 


Mexican forms; how long his memory would have endured, 
and who among the heirs would have provided for the poor 
old sinner’s tenure of his narrow house for as much as ten 
years, or even five. Truth to tell, Nat could imagine it of 
none of them, though each had been indebted to the old man 
many times over during his life, and benefited considerably 
at his death; and though they were all just, upright, and 
kind-hearted men and women, no more inclined to greed or 
selfishness than — than any other set of heirs. It is a posi¬ 
tion which somehow seems to bring out all mankind’s ugliest 
qualities; and as in Burke’s occupation of the Law he was 
frequently concerned with the administration of estates, this 
melancholy fact was familiar to him long before the Marsh 
heirs gave an illustration of it. 

None of them were present at the funeral, except the Ducey 
household; the others, dispersed as they were, many of 
them hundreds of miles away in Louisiana or Florida, could 
not have reached the city in time. In fact, there was a very 
scanty attendance of friends and acquaintances, making 
that depressing ceremony more depressing still. George 
Marsh had long outlived his old friendships and the capacity 
for making new ones. Mr. Ducey, scurrying about in search 
of suitable pall-bearers, — for William was a stickler for the 
proprieties, and shone greatly in the discharge of duties of 
this sort, where he always displayed admirable energy and 
good taste, — confided to Burke that it was almost impossible 
to find anybody who would do. People had ceased to know 
Mr. Marsh; they were all too young, too busy, too self- 
centred; and “Hello, has that old fellow gone at last?” 
expressed their utmost interest in him. Messrs. Burke and 
Lewis, in default of any one more appropriate, were finally 
invited to appear on that sombre staff. The office was 
closed, and all our young clerks attended in a body, instead 
of taking advantage of the holiday to go fishing, something 
which a good deal surprised us. They missed Mr. Marsh, 
the boys said. And, for quite a while afterwards, his old 
split-bottomed, hickory chair stood in its corner of our main 
room, disused, in a respected isolation. His landlady, with 
whom he had boarded for the last twenty years, turned out 
in full mourning, wept profusely and rather noisily amongst 
her black crape and bombazine, and would have joined the 


588 


NATHAN BURKE 


family in their reservation, but for Mrs. Anne’s sharp 
snubbing. The latter’s indignation at this impertinence 
may be imagined. “The idea! Crying around as if she 
were one of us, and wanting to stick herself in with the 
family. I suppose she thinks just because Uncle George 
lived there so long, she can be familiar. I never knew her 
nor called on her in my life. She probably is certain he’s 
left her something — I don’t see why she should expect it. 
He had people of his own, and didn’t need to leave anything 
to strangers. And the way she kept up that sniffling and 
crying was too absurd — just as if she were broken-hearted! 
I’m his niece, and though, of course, I feel badly about poor 
old Uncle George, I can’t do much crying. It’s perfectly 
impossible to cry for a person eighty-six years old!” 

Dr. Vardaman and Miss Clara were there, of course; 
and Governor Gwynne came, looking much more feeble and 
broken than Mr. Marsh ever had, although he lacked at 
least ten years of the latter’s age. But old George had hardly 
showed any signs of physical breakdown even during his 
last days. “He et just as hearty as ever,” the landlady told 
Burke mournfully; “and never complained of a single pain. 
That last night I remember his saying when he got up from 
the table that he was going to get some papers out of his 
desk and take ’em down for you to look over the next morn¬ 
ing, Mr. Burke. He was just as spry. The lamp was lit in 
his room, and he must have set down by the window to cool 
off for a little — it was awfully hot, you know. That’s 
where we found him, setting by the window. We didn’t any 
of us get to bed till right late ’count of the heat, and I kept 
noticing that the light was burning in his room still; I was 
kind of restless, and every time I woke up there was that 
light shining through the transom. Last I got kind of 
uneasy, and got up and knocked at Mr. Sievers’s door and 
asked him if he wouldn’t go up and see what was the matter 
with Mr. Marsh’s light. Minute he went in the room and 
came back and says, 'Mrs. Woolley, will you please to come 
here a minute ? ’ I just had a kind of feeling. I’m that way, 
I always feel. Mr. Marsh was setting there in his chair by 
the window, kind of sunk down in a heap, you know, and 
breathing hard that way they do. I don’t think he’d opened 
his desk at all; he had the key in his hand, and a paper in the 


MR. MARSH’S WILL IS OPENED 


589 


other all clenched up — but ’twasn’t any paper out of his 
desk, it was a letter that had come while he was out, and I’d 
sent Sairey up with it and laid it on his table. I guess he 
was reading it when the stroke took him. I knew what it 
was the minute I saw him. ‘You run for the doctor as hard 
as you can pelt — run for Dr. Vardanian!’ I says to Mr. 
Sievers. We got him in bed and got the brandy and harts¬ 
horn, but it wasn’t any good. Only Mrs. Ducey needn’t 
think that everything wasn’t done for her uncle, Mr. Burke, 
because it was. Dr. Vardaman said we couldn’t have 
done any more. He died at six o’clock that next morn¬ 
ing. I took that key out of the poor old gentleman’s hand 
and the letter and gave ’em both to Mr. Ducey, and gave him 
all the other keys, and there hasn’t been a thing touched. 
Whatever the papers were in his desk they’re all there safe 
and sound. . . 

All this and a good deal more she imparted to Nat in a 
voluble undertone while the pall-bearers were waiting in the 
boarding-house back-parlor with the blinds lowered, and 
sandwiches, plum-cake, and whiskey-and-water set out for 
them on the table according to the custom of our day. The 
hearse stood outside; in a few moments we should start for 
the church. It was always a chatty half-hour with the pall¬ 
bearers. I don’t now why Mrs. Woolley selected Burke for 
her confidences; but people so frequently did that nobody 
in the room saw anything out of the way in it; and she evi¬ 
dently felt the need of some sympathetic or, at least, receptive 
listener after her late rebuffs. We buried the old man in the 
lot in Greenwood which he himself had bought — at a bar¬ 
gain, more than likely — thirty-five years before, where you 
may see his headstone with “George Marsh. 1766-1851 ” on 
it; the lettering is a little indistinct now. “Uncle George 
always liked everything plain and simple , and we want to 
carryout his wishes,” Mrs. Ducey said gravely; “besides any 
kind of monument would be very expensive, and none of 
us separately have the money to put one up. I’d be per¬ 
fectly willing — although I wasn’t left any more than any 
of the others — to give my share; but you can’t persuade 
all of them to join in.” Sentiments which reflected the 
highest credit on herself and, indeed, on the whole family; 
for every one of the heirs said exactly the same thing! 


590 


NATHAN BURKE 


Mr. Marsh’s will had been drawn by Governor Gwynne 
fifteen or twenty years before. On its being opened, he was 
found to have left all his property to be divided equally 
among his six or seven nieces and nephews, Walter Marsh’s 
children; no mention was made of his English relatives; 
he must have outlived all of his immediate family on that 
side, and knew none of their descendants. A clause pro¬ 
vided that “the sums which I have from time to time ad¬ 
vanced to William Ducey, husband of the aforementioned 
Anne Marsh Ducey, for which I hold their joint notes, shall 
not be charged against the share of the said Anne in the 
division of my estate.” There were no charitable bequests; 
old George’s charity began — and ended — at home, and, 
considering the more or less needy circumstances of all the 
legatees, no one could criticise him. The fortune he had 
amassed by so many years of thrift and hard work came to 
about a hundred and eighty thousand dollars — a good 
round sum for those days, although not so much as he was 
reputed to have been worth. In the beginning he had named 
an old friend and contemporary, Mr. Jabez Starke as execu¬ 
tor. He had the luck to survive this gentleman several 
years; and Gilbert Gwynne told me with laughter he re¬ 
membered old George coming into their office shortly after 
Starke’s death, and, after carefully inquiring whether an 
erasure would make any legal difficulty in his will, and ex¬ 
plaining that he wanted to appoint somebody in the dead 
man’s place — “he went to work on it with his old horn- 
handled penknife, Burke. He said he’d just leave the l rke’ 
on the end of the surname as that would save scratching; 
but I’m afraid he had a pretty hard time hitching the rest 
of the new name on in front. You can scarcely read it.” 
There could be no doubt of Mr. Marsh’s intention, however, 
as, at some later date, he had added at the bottom of the page 
in a hand still firm and legible at fourscore: “I hereby ap¬ 
point Nathan Burke, Esq., my executor; and I desire that no 
bond be required of him.” 

We cannot suppose this choice to have been the most 
agreeable in the world to Mrs. Anne Ducey. She had to sub¬ 
mit to it; and allowed Burke to come to the house in the 
course of business, and went herself to the office to sign 
papers, on the principle that what can’t be cured must be 


MR. MARSH’S WILL IS OPENED 


591 


endured. One of the first questions she asked, with a certain 
perceptible suspicion, was what that phrase “ without 
bond” meant exactly. Burke explained. 

“It’s only an expression of confidence, Mrs. Ducey,” he 
added, reddening a little, “as it happens an executor is 
obliged to give bond in this State. But Mr. Marsh didn’t 
know that.” 

“H’m!” said Mrs. Anne, “then it doesn’t amount to any¬ 
thing after all, one way or the other ? I mean it don’t make 
any difference to anybody?” 

“To nobody but me,” said Nat. And perhaps something 
in the young fellow’s face struck Mrs. Ducey, for, after going 
out of the office and downstairs into the street, she suddenly 
and quickly came back again, her black mourning skirts 
flowing and rustling with that slight, dainty noisiness so 
characteristic of her. She went impulsively up to the desk. 

“I — I’m afraid you’ll think I meant something, Nath — 
Mr. Burke, by what I said just now. I was just thinking 
maybe it sounded to you as if I meant something. But I 
didn’t, you know. I’m sure we’re all satisfied with the way 
you’re doing — everybody in the family is satisfied.” She 
held out her hand to him, troubled, anxious, equally generous 
and tactless; they shook hands for the first time in five 
years. 

If, however, the family were satisfied with Mr. Burke’s 
administration, — and a number of them wrote to ask who 
“this man Burke” was,—they were not by any means so 
with the will itself, although you might have thought it, on 
the face of it, as fair and kindly meant an instrument of the 
sort as ever was invented. Almost any one of the Marsh 
heirs, I think, could have disposed of the property better. 
Before long letters began to crowd in, complaining, inquiring, 
expressing the most profound regret and astonishment that 
Uncle George had thought it necessary to say this, to do 
that, to leave written down the other. Nobody wanted 
to make trouble , for everybody hoped it would be under¬ 
stood that they were not in the least disappointed, 
for Heaven knew they had never expected a penny 
from Mr. Marsh, and the old gentleman had been most 
generous, but they would merely like to have it ex¬ 
plained why , etc., etc.? It was a well-known fact — all the 


592 


NATHAN BURKE 


family knew it — that Uncle George had taken advantage of 
his brother’s widow, Grandma Marsh, when he wound up 
Grandpa’s estate, so that, after living in the greatest luxury, 
she had been obliged to scrimp along in the smallest possible 
way for years. And they were glad to see that the old man 
had done the right thing at last, as far as he knew how, by 
leaving his property to be divided among her children; but 
how did it happen that, etc., etc.? Nat was amazed to find 
out to how many different people Mr. Marsh had been in¬ 
debted for his rise in the world. So-and-So’s husband had 
gone to the rescue, and practically saved George from ruin 
during the financial panic of 1820. Such-a-One’s father had 
absolutely made Mr. Marsh by introducing him to the gov¬ 
ernor of Louisiana and other influential persons to whom he 
could lend money. Somebody else had pointed his atten¬ 
tion to a vast cotton speculation on which he cleared thou - 
sands. Was there ever such a lucky man in his advisers and 
friends ? And alas for these latter ! They saved him, them¬ 
selves they could not save; they all died leaving their families 
poor as church-mice ! 

Mrs. Ducey herself was very surprised and resentful upon 
hearing that her son, Uncle George’s own namesake, had not 
been separately and handsomely remembered; not that she 
was disappointed, or expected anything more than she had a 
right to. Uncle George had always been very good to her; he 
simply wouldn’t let her take care of him, although she would 
have loved to do it, and she knew it looked queer to people 
that she didn’t. But he had never cared for Georgie, and 
had never done him justice. She knew Georgie hadn’t 
always acted right, but he was too young yet to be judged, 
or found fault with, and, anyhow, he wasn’t any worse than 
other young men — nor indeed half so bad — and she cer¬ 
tainly thought Uncle George might have been more consist¬ 
ent and less prejudiced. As for that about those notes not 
having to be paid back, or charged, or whatever the term 
was, she thought it was perfectly horrid of him to have had 
that put in, when he knew it would be published when the 
will was probated, and might injure William in a business 
way very much. If he didn’t want the money, why didn’t 
he burn the notes up, and then there couldn’t have been any 
talk about it? There was, however, less talk about it than 


MR. MARSH'S WILL IS OPENED 


593 


poor Anne supposed, for that William Ducey was in old man 
Marsh's debt hundreds and even thousands of dollars was 
no news to any one, and hardly aroused a single comment; 
and it is only fair to say that not one of the other heirs, with 
all their questions and objections, ever found fault with that 
provision of the will, or even remarked on it. 

From all this it will be seen that every Marsh heir had a 
solid moral right to his share, so that there was really no 
occasion for them to express much gratitude towards the 
dead man, or to cherish his name, or do anything, in short, 
but forget him as quickly and conveniently as might be. 
After all, he had been a hard and unlovable man; it would 
not have been in nature for people to remember him long or 
kindly. Mr. Burke simplified the situation wonderfully by 
explaining to the more belligerent of his correspondents, who 
perhaps estimated their claims a little too high and threat¬ 
ened legal proceedings, that any attempt to break the will 
would, under our laws, involve a recognition of the English 
heirs, who might be legion and would have equal rights; and 
that, in his opinion, half a loaf was ever so much better 
than no bread — arguments of which everybody at once 
perceived the force! 

He was surprised to find that Mr. Marsh's desk and 
papers, which Nat remembered as the only neat, tidy, and 
well-ordered thing about the old man, were in a good deal of 
confusion although nothing was missing, and much had been 
carefully treasured up which could not possibly be of any use 
to old George himself or any one else. Dozens of those 
greasy old pocket-books in which he was so fond of making 
calculations — stacks of the ancient ledgers and account- 
books of Ducey & Co., wherein Burke recognized his own 
entries of almost fifteen years back — packs of ragged, yel¬ 
lowing letters half a century old — he went through them all, 
gaining, unconsciously perhaps, a more intimate knowledge 
still of George Marsh's life and character. Locked up in a 
separate tin box were a number of deeds, mortgages, ab¬ 
stracts of title which may have been those very “papers" 
the old man was forever planning to have him “look over." 
Nathan knew something about them already; they were all 
on record, and once upon a time he had been quite diligent 
to search the county books and find out all he could about 
2q 


594 


NATHAN BURKE 


Nathan Granger and the lands in the Refugee Tract. Haven’t 
we all had our dreams, eh ? In youth, at any rate ? There is 
something fine, even to the most practical and prosaic of us, 
in fancying one’s self for a moment a disinherited hero, 
coming into his own again. I have seen the thing happen 
on the stage and in countless novels. The rightful heir 
brings out a “paper” that proves everything; all hostile 
claims are whiffed away like gossamer; the illegal possessors 
of the title and estates are turned out neck and heels — 
hurrah for Right, Justice, the Law ! Burke had long since 
put all these gilded notions by; he read the deeds with a 
grave curiosity. And it was while he was thus occupied, 
sitting alone in the office one day, that he received a visit 
from, of all men in the world, ’Liph Williams, whom he had 
not seen for years. 

’Liph was hale and hearty; and, in fact, he could not have 
been over fifty, but, like all his kind, he had begun life early 
and aged long before his proper time. He had grandchil¬ 
dren already, some of them grown up, and he talked like a 
Methuselah. Mrs. Williams was dead; and Mrs. Darce, too, 
at the age of pretty nigh a hundred, ’Liph reckoned; she 
had outlived her daughter a year or two. He himself had 
had a right smart spell uv fever, didn’t know ezzactly what 
you’d call it, but when he got up, I swanny, he was plumb 
deef in both ears! Uv course, it wored off after erwhile, 
but he was a leetle deef still. Didn’t know whether it was 
th’ fever, er th’ med’cine th’ doctor give him. What ? Ye 
gotter speak a leetle louder, Nat. 

You had to roar, in truth; and the weather being warm 
and all the windows wide open, Nathan wondered with in¬ 
ward amusement how the passers-by would construe the 
racket. “I hope ’Liph hasn’t any secrets to tell,” he said 
to himself. The deefness had not wored off quite so much as 
’Liph believed, and his own voice was loud, high-pitched, and 
monotonous, as those of deaf people commonly are. 

“ Yeh needn’t ter shout at me,” he explained a little testily, 
observing the effort Burke was making; “jest speak a leetle 
loud, y’know. Well, well, it’s kinder good ter see ye, Nat; 
I ain’t seen yeh sence yeh come home from th’ war ’n’ got 
th’ sword give ye. I was thar, y’know, bellerin’ fer ‘ Fightin’ 
Burke’ th’ loudest one in th’ crowd, I guess. When ye come 


MR. MARSH’S WTLL IS OPENED 595 

out at th’ top of the State-House steps after they done it, 
y’know." 

“I remember. You came around to see me afterwards/' 
bawled Nathan. 

“Uh-huh, that's so. We had a real nice time, talkin', 
didn't we, 'bout pore Nance Darnell, 'n' ol' Jake 'n' ol' times," 
said 'Liph, with unconscious irony. “Yes, we hed a good 
talk." 

“You ought to come in town oftener, 'Liph." 

“Well, there ain't anything fer me ter do here, an' nobody 
much to see," observed the other, tactfully; “there’s ben a 
lot uv folks died here lately, Nat. I've alius noticed they go 
that way; kinder die off in droves, all of 'em that are 'bout 
of an age. 01' man Marsh he held on longer 'n' most. Did 
he leave much, Nathan?" 

“Yes, he left a good deal." 

“They's a sight of relatives, I've heerd tell. I guess it 
won't amount to no great lot apiece, come to divide it 'round 
among 'em all, hey?" 

“Oh, everybody will get something." 

'Liph settled back in his chair, baffled. “Pretty dern 
pertickler, ain't ye?" he said sulkily; and then a new expres¬ 
sion came into his face. He cleared his throat, and hitched 
closer to Burke's desk. “Nat," he said in what he meant for 
a confidential whisper — you could have heard it in the 
street! —“ain't you goin' ter do anything 'bout that? 
'Bout them Refugee claims, yeh know?" 

“Hey? What about them? Do what?" said Nathan, 
surprised and taken aback. 

“Why, Lord love you, I know all 'bout 'em. 'Bout yer 
Grandpa Granger owning that there proputty in th' Refugee 
Track 'n' all — Slemm, he told me," 'Liph said with impa¬ 
tience; “yeh don't hev ter be so almighty close-mouthed. 
That proputty had orter be yourn, by rights, Nathan. 
Ain't you goin' ter put in no claim? Now would be a first- 
rate time, seems to me." 

Burke considered the other a minute in a thoughtful silence. 
Then, “I'd like to know what Slemm told you, 'Liph," he 
said. 

“Jest what I'm sayin’ —jest what I'm tellin' ye," cried 
out Williams, eagerly; “I wouldn't make no mistake 'bout 


596 


NATHAN BURKE 


a thing like that, would I? He said they was a lot uv land 
in th’ Refugee Track that th’ Gov’ment give yer gran’ther 
back in tlT Revolution time, becuz he’d quit Canady where 
he was born ’n’ lived till he was a man grown — becuz he’d 
quit there ’count uv bein’ agin th’ ol’ country in th’ fight. 
He said th’ Gov’ment done th’ same for a hull passel uv folks 
— Refugees, they called ’em. He said yer grandpaw set¬ 
tled in New York State first, ’n’ then he moved to Penn- 
sylvany, ’n’ then I s’pose he thort he might ’s well come 
’n’ hev a look at his land that th’ Gov’ment give him. An’ 
then Slemm said he up ’n’ died ’fore he ever laid eyes on it — 
died uv th’ cholery when they hed a kinder pest uv it over 
to Steubenville, er somewhere near there. Slemm he said th’ 
childern was all minors at th’ time, ’n’ he guessed nobody 
knew much ’bout th’ land, er they didn’t know enough ter 
keep holt uv it, anyhow. He said he hedn’t kep’ track uv all 
uv ’em; he thort they mostly died er driftedoff somewhere. But 
yer maw was one; he hed her all down, ’n’ knew she was 
married ter John Burke, ’n’ all there was ter know ’bout her. 
Why, I remember yer maw, Nathan, but we didn’t know 
nothin’ ’bout her people; she was a pore, sickly little thing — 
didn’t live no time. 01’ Mam Darce she told Slemm a good 
deal, y’know. I ric’lect th’ first time he come we sus- 
picioned he didn’t mean you no good, but when we got to 
knowin’ him better we found out he was a real nice gentleman. 
He jest wanted ter see you righted, that’s all.” 

“Very kind of Mr. Slemm, I’m sure,” said Burke, dryly. 

“Why, warn’t it all so, Nat?” 

“Oh, yes, it’s true — or mostly true.” 

“Well, then, ain’t you goin’ to do somethin’ ’bout it, 
Nathan? Slemm he was a lawyer — ’course I don’t know 
how good a lawyer, but, anyway, he’d oughter know what he 
was talking ’bout — ’n’ he said that every man Jack 
that ownded a title that went back to Granger could be lawed 
out uv th’ proputty easy as easy! Becuz he said ol’ man 
Granger never sold a foot uv it. It was just there, ’n’ no¬ 
body payin’ any ’tention to it, till some slick feller come along 
at th’ time they was layin’ th’ city out, y’know, ’n’ claimed 
ter be Granger’s agent, ’n ’ sold th’ hull track, ’n’ pocketed th’ 
money. Slemm said th’ deeds that feller give — I’ve plumb 
fergot his name—’’ 


MR. MARSH’S WILL IS OPENED 


597 


“Name was Strawbridge — I have seen it on the records,” 
Burke said. 

“Yes, that was it, Strawbridge. Slemm said his deeds 
wasn’t worth a damn; only as long as they wasn’t any Grang¬ 
ers turning up ter make a fuss, folks jest moved in ’n’ settled 
up all over, ’n’ bought ’n’ sold time ’n’ time agin. He said 
you could sue ’em all, ’n’ git it all back.” 

“And I suppose Mr. Slemm would be willing to conduct the 
case?” 

“Well, yes,” ’Liph admitted with a grin; “uv course he 
wanted to make somethin’ out uv it. That’s all right, ain’t 
it, Nat? I don’t see no harm in that. Man’s got to live. 
But if ye don’t like him, ye could do yer own lawin’, an’ 
’twouldn’t cost ye nothin’. Only Slemm he knew all ’bout 
who th’ proputty owners was now, ’n’ how they’d bought it, 
’n’ everything. 01’ man Marsh ownded more’n three-fift’s 
uv it, he said. That’s why seems to me ’twould be a pretty 
good time right now to begin perceedings, Nathan. Ye c’ld 
git at th’ heirs so easy.” 

“I knew all about it long before I ever heard of Slemm. I 
found it out ten or twelve years ago when I was reading law 
in Governor Gwynne’s office,” said Nat; “and if I didn’t 
bring action then, I’m hardly likely to now. It’s not so easy 
as you think to make good a claim like that, ’Liph, after all 
these years.” 

“Well, but, my Lord, Nathan, why not? ’Tain’t as if 
you was tryin’ ter chisel ’em outer it; it’s yourn, fair ’n’ 
square. It ’Id be a pilin’ lot uv money; it ’Id make a rich 
man of ye.” 

“I don’t know that I want a piling lot of money and 
I’d much rather make a rich man of myself, without that 
kind of help,” said Burke, part vexed, part amused. There 
could be no doubting the sincerity and single-heartedness of 
Williams’s interest; he had been gradually growing more and 
more excited, raising his voice and thumping his hand down 
on the table to underscore his statements. It was nearing 
the hour of the afternoon when people would be coming in, 
and Burke, with one ear alert for the opening door in the 
outer office, found the conversation entirely too personal for 
publicity. 

“You act plumb foolish,” said the other, in a temper; “uv 


598 


NATHAN BURKE 


course I know — er I kin guess — why you didn’t come 
on ol’ Marsh fer yer proputty. Yeh thort ye was beholding 
to him. Ye alius was a good sort of boy, Nat, ’n’ ye alius 
let yourself be put upon. 01’ George didn’t make no bad 
bargain when he took ’n’ put you in his office, ’n’ th’ ol’ 
skeezicks knew it. You’ve paid him out a dozen times; ye 
did two men’s work ’n’ got a boy’s wages —” 

“Bosh! You don’t know anything about it, ’Liph,” said 
Nat, good-humoredly; “wait a minute, will you? I think 
there’s somebody outside.” But ’Liph enjoyed the deaf 
man’s advantage; he went on talking, and was talking still 
when Burke, finding the place empty after all, came back. 

“—Ye ain’t anyways beholding to the Duceys ’n’ th’ 
rest uv ’em that I kin see. Ye ain’t got any call ter give up 
what’s yourn to them, ner ter be so tender uv ’em — ’less’n 
you’re goin’ ter marry that little girl — that little Francie 
Blake, like somebody was tellin’ me. Is that so, Nat?” 

“That’s nobody’s business but mine,” shouted out Mr. 
Burke, fiercely, finding himself all at once extremely warm 
about the ears — “and hers,” he added hurriedly. 

“Well, there! I didn’t mean no harm askin’. It’s jest 
what I heerd somebody say. Folks will talk, y’ know. They 
talked like all-possessed ’bout you ’n’ th’ minister’s girl. 
But ’bout yer proputty —” 

“I’ll tell you what, ’Liph, I’ll wait anyhow till these Allen 
claims are settled, and see how they turn out. They’re all 
located in the Refugee Tract, too, you know, and it’s very 
much the same sort of case,” said Burke, glad to return to the 
first subject; “and after that, if I feel encouraged—” 

“Lordy, Nathan, they’ll be pottering along with them 
Allen heirs from now till doomsday — they’ve ben at it two- 
three years already!” ejaculated ’Liph, in dismay. 

“Well?” said the other, grinning; and Williams, seeing 
the joke, had to grin, too. 

“ ’Twouldn’t be that way with yourn, though,” he said, 
taking his leave; “yourn’s lots straighter claim ’n’ what 
theirs sets up to be. I wisht you’d do it, Nat, I wisht you 
would.” 


CHAPTER XX 


In which the Granger Claims are Settled 

Mr. Burke turned again to his occupation of sorting out 
the Marsh papers after Williams’s departure with a great ap¬ 
pearance of zeal and business, so that Lewis, presently coming 
in from the Court-House, must have been profoundly im¬ 
pressed. But I believe that Nat had not changed docu¬ 
ments for a half-hour, and the set phrases of the deed of sale 
which happened to be lying under his eyes all that time con¬ 
veyed nothing whatever to his mind. He read and re-read 
mechanically that Hiram Small for, and in consideration of, 
the sum of eight hundred dollars ($800.00) paid to him by 
George Marsh, did hereby give, grant, sell, convey, and assign 
to the said George Marsh, his heirs and assigns forever, the 
property herein named and described, being Lot 15 on the 
plat of the southwest quarter of the northwest half . . . 
known as McBride’s Half-Section (No. 26) . . . sixty-tw r o 
and one-half feet fronting on High Street, and one hundred 
and eighty-seven feet fronting on South Street, measured in 
a line running due east from the junction of the above-named 
streets to Pickering’s Alley, also sometimes called Luther’s 
Alley. . . . 

And how on earth (he thought) had that rumor about 
Francie and himself been started? It was absolutely with¬ 
out foundation — oh, absolutely! Ridiculous! Unkind! 
Neither one of them was thinking of such a thing — at least — 
It must be pretty widespread to have reached ’Liph Will¬ 
iams; but Burke & Lewis had an unusually extensive prac¬ 
tice among the country people; and country people are 
active gossips. It would be very annoying to Francie if she 
should hear of it — somebody might be stupid or impertinent 
enough to blurt it out to her face in just this same way. But 
he would protect her from that in — er — in some way or 
other; he would see that she wasn’t made uncomfortable. 
His going to the house so often nowadays doubtless gave 

599 


600 


NATHAN BURKE 


color to the report; but he merely went on business, and, good 
heavens, if people could only see her when she met him! 
How she treated him, how indifferent and cool and unem¬ 
barrassed she was with him — if people could only see that, 
why — why, they’d soon see! She didn’t care a pin about 
him, except for old times’ sake — heigh-ho! Lewis called to 
him from the outer office, and he roused with a start and a 
guilty feeling, applying himself once more to the property 
herein named and described . . . and from thence due north 
on said Pickering’s or Luther’s Alley sixty-eight feet and five 
inches . . . 

“Look here, this must be yours. Have you missed any¬ 
thing?” asked his partner; and he tendered Burke a crum¬ 
pled-up envelope with one end torn off, addressed to George 
Marsh, Esq. “It was lying on the table, but the postman 
didn’t bring it, for it’s an old letter— one of the old man’s, I 
suppose.” 

“I suppose so. There are dozens here, none of ’em of any 
importance. I’ll have ’em seeded around all over the whole 
place, if I’m not more careful,” said the other and looked at it 
carelessly. He was thinking of something which, upon the 
twentieth reading of Hiram Small’s deed of sale, had finally 
forced itself on his attention. The lot on the corner of High 
and South was now owned and occupied by Mr. Michael Shea 
of the Golden Eagle Saloon and Billiard Parlors, with a very 
busy front entrance on High Street, and a no less busy rear 
door on the alley; it was considered one of the best (finan¬ 
cially, so to speak) in town, and worth several times eight 
hundred, or eight thousand dollars, Mr. Marsh himself hav¬ 
ing sold it at an unheard-of profit ten or twelve years before. 
But now, as he read, a recollection of recent litigation con¬ 
nected with Shea and his Golden Eagle struggled to the sur¬ 
face of Burke’s mind. Various patches of property across 
the way or in the immediate neighborhood figured, he remem¬ 
bered, in the often-recited claims of the Allen heirs; there 
were a dozen or more defendants — Governor Gwynne, who 
owned that piece next door with the shoe shop, was one, 
Joshua Barker, Dry-Goods & Notions, another — Nathan 
could not at the moment recall all the names, but felt certain 
that Shea was one. It was worthy of remark that the Allen 
heirs, under the judicious guidance of legal advisers such as 


THE GRANGER CLAIMS ARE SETTLED 601 


Messrs. Wylie & Slemm, without doubt, found fault only 
with titles to the most valuable and centrally located prop¬ 
erty in town, and brought suit by preference against men of 
wealth and note — or notoriety. “I should like to see 
Small's abstract — it must be here," Burke thought, search¬ 
ing amongst the long legal envelopes and bundles tied up with 
soiled ends of tape; “old George said he had kept clear of 
buying anything with a title from Allen — but he might have 
forgotten. The old fellow did forget towards the last of his 
life. These Allen heirs wouldn't be worrying around with 
Shea though, unless—" he paused. He had found, not the 
abstract, but another paper — a copy of a deed from George 
Marsh to Michael Shea warranting the title to “ Lot 15 . . . 
sixty-two and one-half feet fronting on High Street ..." 
and all the rest of it. “Goodness!" ejaculated Nat, men¬ 
tally. He shoved the papers aside to make room, and doing 
so, came again upon the letter Lewis had handed him, lying 
there disregarded. He picked it up. 

The jargon they talk nowadays of thought-transference, 
psychic influence, telepathy, and so on would have been un¬ 
intelligible to us thirty-odd years ago; we were not dream¬ 
ing of explaining the miracles of coincidence by any such 
elaborate method or in such magnificent terms; otherwise 
Mr. Burke, notwithstanding a somewhat sceptical turn, 
might have been converted to the occult creed then and 
there. He put to one side the warranty deed which, if a 
genuine copy of one actually existing, he knew to be in the 
circumstances a matter of some gravity; and he took up 
the letter which he believed to be of no importance. As it 
happened, in his position of Mr. Marsh's executor, he must 
have known all about both deed and letter within a very 
short time, even if he had never found or seen these. But 
that these acts of his should fall so pat together startled him 
then, and does a little now. As he drew the letter, which was 
torn in places, and much creased and rumpled, from the en¬ 
velope, there fell out a bit of note-paper with a neat black 
edge of mourning and a line or two in Mrs. Ducey's fine 
Italian script: “This letter was in my uncle's hand when he 
was taken sick. It must have got separated from the others 
in the desk somehow. We have just found it. Please come 
up this evening and explain what it means. Anne M. Ducey." 


602 


NATHAN BURKE 


Burke regarded it vaguely; it did not strike him until later that 
this note was, in its way, much more mysterious than any¬ 
thing that had yet happened. The letter was from Shea’s at¬ 
torney. Although they had straightened it out and smoothed 
it into some semblance of tidiness it still bore the marks of old 
Marsh’s strong clutch. Death had surprised him in the most 
familiar act and posture of his life; his utter thought, the final 
effort of his will, must have been concerned with this alone. 
It was like a piece of drama, strangely significant and ap¬ 
propriate. 

The young man — young man, indeed! Nat’s head was 
fast turning gray, prematurely, to be sure, but still it was 
nearly gray, and he felt very old, sedate, and settled; I think 
it is time to stop putting that adjective to his name — Mr. 
Burke, I say, was so preoccupied with his recent discoveries, 
and the really curious accident of their following so close one 
on the heels of the other, that he finished his work and went 
to his rooms (where he lived now in some state and opulence) 
and ate his supper, and made an uncommonly neat toilette, 
and was on his way to the Duceys’ with the letters in his 
pocket, all without its once having occurred to him that 
the lady’s note was a sufficiently singular business in itself. 
As he walked up the path to the Ducey front door, it came 
into his head for the first time to wonder where that letter 
came from, and how long he had had it? It must have been 
with the other papers; in that case Mrs. Anne had written 
some days ago, for he had had them at the office almost a week. 
She would think he had shown an outrageous indifference and 
disrespect — Whew! That it had been mislaid and only 
found to-day wouldn’t excuse him — Whew! She would be 
ready to petition the court to appoint another executor if he 
did not display more diligence and care, he thought with a 
laugh. 

Although it was not more than three weeks since Mr. 
Marsh’s death, Nat fancied the house and place had al¬ 
ready taken on a look of prosperity and the indefinable 
reserve of a private residence; he understood the boarders 
had been, or were presently to be, dismissed. And only 
yesterday William appeared in a subdued splendor of 
rich new mourning, a black satin waistcoat, a new tall 
hat. Poor William! I believe a handsome allowance for 


THE GRANGER CLAIMS ARE SETTLED 603 


clothes and pocket-money was all he ever got — certainly 
it was all that was safe to let him have — out of the Marsh 
inheritance. He used to go about talking in those large 
phrases of which he was so fond about “our estate” and 
“our plans”; and was as ornamental, fluent, and useful 
at banquets and vestry-meetings as in the first days of his 
career; and Mrs. Ducey made him most happy and com¬ 
fortable, I am sure. But the fact is, the honest gentleman 
had no longer any voice or authority in their affairs; he sat at 
the head of his table and carved the meat; and put a silver 
dollar in the collection-plate Sunday mornings; and listened 
gravely when business was discussed in the family circle, and 
signed his name where he was told; and was quite without 
cares and responsibilities. His wife, to the astonishment of 
Nat Burke — who managed her property for years — kept a 
pretty good grip on her gear. Some underlying vein of old 
Marsh’s thrift and caution came to the surface! in her; she 
was not shrewd — or not nearly so shrewd as she thought 
herself — but she was honest and domineering; and, except 
as regarded her son, uncompromisingly stingy as only a 
woman can be. Both William and Anne have been gone this 
long while now; and as for the property, who knows what has 
become of it? We heap up riches and cannot tell who shall 
gather them. 

It was without any such gloomy reflections, however, that 
Burke went up the walk. He was picturing to himself with 
comic dismay Mrs. Ducey’s face and manner upon seeing 
him; and was correspondingly surprised at being received 
with an appearance of anxiety and interest, but no resent¬ 
ment. Mr. Ducey was not in the parlor; he seldom came to 
these conferences. But Burke was acutely conscious of 
Francie sitting behind the lamp in shadow with her black 
skirts sweeping into the other shadows, her hands lying in her 
lap, and her averted cheek and the turn of her neck all a kind 
of soft, warm white; her deep brown hair packed and twined 
at the back of her head looked almost black; ladies wore a 
little white collar about the base of the throat clasped with 
some sort of brooch or pin in front, in those days, which 
showed off the set of the head and neck, and was a pretty 
fashion, I used to think. At least, it looked well on Francie. 
Nathan made his bow to her in a sudden distracting fluster of 


G04 


NATHAN BURKE 


thought; but if his manner betrayed confusion, it mercifully 
passed unnoticed, for Mrs. Ducey began to speak earnestly 
almost before the ordinary greetings were uttered. 

“Well, Nathan, you’ve got that letter that Shea man, or 
whatever his name is, wrote to Uncle George? He wanted to 
go to law or make Uncle George pay him something — dam¬ 
ages, or something, wasn’t it? I couldn’t make out what 
it was all about, of course, but I knew you ought to see it at 
once.” 

“ I’m sorry I didn’t come across it till to-day. I must have 
dropped or mislaid —” Burke was beginning apologetically 
when she interrupted him with a peremptory gesture. 

“I know — it can’t be helped, and I don’t suppose it’s a 
hanging matter, anyhow. Only, of course everything about 
Uncle George’s business ought to be attended to promptly, I 
know. But the letter must have got mixed in with some of 
his other things — I don’t believe that Woolley woman is 
much of a housekeeper, anyhow. Uncle George’s room was 
in the worst disorder. Was the letter important? I mean, 
was it just Uncle George’s private affair, or has it got some¬ 
thing to do with us f ” 

Burke got it out and explained. “I don’t know Shea’s 
lawyer,” he said, when he had made her understand as 
nearly as he could the nature of the Allen claims. “I mean 
to go around to-morrow and see him about this. Shea 
thinks he can come on your uncle — and, of course, on his 
estate — for whatever loss he has sustained through this 
Allen litigation, because of Mr. Marsh having warranted 
his title. Now —” 

“Well, I do think of all things the law is the funniest!” 
ejaculated Mrs. Ducey. “First the Small man buys of the 
Allen man, and then Uncle George buys of the Small man, 
and then this nasty, saloon-keeping Shea buys of Uncle 
George — it’s just like that Chinese ivory carving Jimmie 
Sharpless sent me, one ball inside another ball till you get 
down to a real little bit of a one inside them all. I don’t 
know what Uncle George wanted to sell to a saloon-keeper 
for; he ought to have sold to some’Yespectable person. And, 
anyway, the Small man is just as much to blame as anybody 
else; why don’t they hunt him up and sue him? I can’t 
imagine what Uncle George could have been thinking of — 


THE GRANGER CLAIMS ARE SETTLED 605 


he must have known giving any kind of warrants like that 
would make trouble. And here all these years we have 
been thinking he was such a fine business man!” 

“He supposed the title was perfect at the time, Mrs. 
Ducey. Nobody had questioned it, and he must have held 
that property for years. And for that matter, from what I 
hear, I should be inclined to think that all these titles in 
dispute are good. But that’s got nothing to do with Shea’s 
complaint against your uncle, you know — for the time 
being, at any rate.” 

“Well, why didn’t he begin long ago when the Allens first 
began their fussing?” 

Nathan didn’t know; he thought it likely Shea’s lawyer 
advised against it. “He may have wanted Shea tc wait 
until the Allen claims were farther along, before beginning an¬ 
other suit. I am sure your uncle had forgotten all about the 
warranty. This letter probably surprised him very much.” 

“Poor Uncle George!” said Francie, with a quick little 
sigh; “he was so alone.” It was the first time she had spo¬ 
ken; and also she was the only one amongst his grateful 
heirs whom Burke ever heard express any feeling even re¬ 
motely approaching regret in connection with old George 
Marsh. Mrs. Ducey looked up, suddenly horrified. 

“Nathan, you don’t think it could have given Uncle 
George such a shock he had that stroke, do you?” 

“Oh, hardly that. Mr. Marsh was used to business deal¬ 
ings. Of course, we all know he had fallen off a good deal 
recently; he wasn’t the man he had been. But even so —” 

“Well, I wish it had all happened before he died, and then 
he could have attended to it himself, and we wouldn’t have 
had all this worry,” said Anne, nervously; “will it take a 
great deal of money to — to have the lawsuit ? Or hadn’t 
we better pay the man right off and be done with it? It 
won’t take everything we’ve got, will it?” She looked 
around, pitiably worried. “I — I wish I hadn’t told them 
all I wasn’t going to take boarders any more. But they 
haven’t all found another place yet —” 

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Ducey,” said Nathan; her dis¬ 
tress and anxiety were such nobody could have had the 
heart to smile. “This is only an annoyance, and I think I 
can fix it up with Shea so that it won’t be too costly —” 


606 


NATHAN BURKE 


“I think it’s too mean! Just when we thought we were 
going to be comfortable at last to have this turn up,” Mrs. 
Ducey said, angry and aggrieved and helpless; “you talk 
about settling it up, but lawyers are so tricky you never 
know what’s going to be the end of anything. They always 
get every cent of the money, no matter how the case turns 
out. Oh — I — I didn’t mean you, Nathan, of course. I 
meant it’s the rule with lawyers, everybody says.” 

“It doesn’t make any difference to Nathan what you say. 
He knows everything we’ve got ought to be his, anyhow!” 
said Francie, in a sharp, clear, and resolute voice. She got 
up and came and stood between them, looking somehow 
taller and older in her black clothes and sudden assumption 
of authority. Her hands were clasped tight across her 
breast; the look she gave Burke held something almost venge¬ 
ful in its pride of renunciation. 

As for that gentleman, he sat dumb in a consternation and 
bewilderment as great as if she had exploded a bomb be¬ 
neath their feet. He could not even think connectedly; 
and still in vacant surprise, he heard Mrs. Ducey exclaim: 
“Francie! What’s that? Why, you’ve gone crazy!” 

“It’s true, I tell you! Everything Uncle George bought 
and owned around here belonged to Nathan’s grandfather, 
and if he went to law about it, he could get it every bit back! ” 
the girl proclaimed. “I heard him say so himself — or — 
or, at least, the other man said so, and you didn’t say you 
couldn’t, Nathan. You just let us have it because of Uncle 
George. If you think I’m crazy, Aunt Anne, ask him — 
ask Nathan!” 

“Francie! You’re crazy!” cried her aunt again; “what 
do you know about Nathan’s grandfather?” 

“Never mind! I know all about him. I heard him 
talking about it in his own office —” 

“You heard who? You heard Nathan’s grandfather 
talking!” said Mrs. Ducey, wholly at sea, and out of temper; 
“mercy, Francie, you dreamed it! You’re talking perfectly 
wildly — it’s not sense what you’re saying!” 

“I say — I — heard — Nathan — talking — about — his 
— grandfather — this very afternoon to — another — man — 
and he — the other man, I mean — knew — all about it, 
too!” said Francie, separating her words with a savage 


THE GRANGER CLAIMS ARE SETTLED 607 


distinctness; “it was in his own — office — Nathan’s — own 
office —” 

11 What!’ 1 shouted out Mr. Burke, in his turn, galvanized 
into something like activity by this statement; “the office? 
My office? You haven’t been at my office for days!” 

“Yes, she has, yes, she has!” cried Mrs. Ducey, visibly 
perturbed; “she was there this afternoon. Didn’t you 
see her? I sent her down with that letter, don’t you remem¬ 
ber? Why, how did you think the letter got there, Nathan? ” 
And misconstruing the other’s look, she added defensively; 
“There wasn’t anybody else to send. I couldn’t help it. 
I knew that letter was important, and Francie just had to 
it down ^ 

“This letter? Shea’s letter?” babbled Nat, worse off 
in his confusion than before. 

“Gracious, yes! That letter. What’s the matter nowf 
Francie said you were busy, and she left it for you.” 

“Well, I did. I left it on the table. And you were busy, 
Nathan, I heard you talking,” said Francie, quite calm 
now. 

“Well, but he says you weren’t there; he couldn’t have 
seen you — what is it all about, anyhow?” said Mrs. Ducey, 
in an exasperation; “I can’t make head nor tail of what 
you’re saying. And I’d like to know where you got all this 
nonsensical stuff about Nathan’s grandfather. You never 
said a word to me about it before.” 

“Because I didn’t know myself till to-day. And then I 
— I didn’t know exactly what to do. I thought I’d wait 
till Nathan came, and — and — I thought I’d wait till 
Nathan came , you see. But it’s all true, Aunt Anne. I 
heard every word they said. The other man wanted Na¬ 
than to get his property back — ” 

“Which other man? What other man? How did he 
happen to know so much? Oh, you can’t have got it right, 
Francie.” 

“Ask Nathan, then! Ask him!” said the girl, forcibly, 
though she was trembling; “Nathan, you know it’s so!” 

Burke, who had been very injudiciously trying to force upon 
his muddled wits the double task of understanding the 
letter transaction, and remembering just what he and Will¬ 
iams had said in that ill-timed conversation, gave up both 


608 


NATHAN BURKE 


efforts. “Do be sensible, both of you!” he remarked gal¬ 
lantly. “I — I mean, that is, let’s try to get at what’s 
happened. How did you happen to come to the office and 
go away without my seeing you, Francie? What did you 
do that for?” 

“I don’t care if I did listen. I don’t care if it was wrong 
to listen. I’m glad I did. There!” she said vigorously. 
She seemed to think that this entirely irrelevant speech an¬ 
swered him. “But I just couldn’t see you or talk to you 
right after hearing all that — I couldn’t. I wanted to get 
away somewhere, and think first.” 

“For mercy’s sake, what did the child hear?” said Anne, 
appealing to Burke in despair. 

Francie began to explain, a little brokenly and incohe¬ 
rently: “Aunt Anne, when I got down there with the letter 
I knocked twice, and nobody came to the door, but I could 
hear them talking, so I knew there was somebody in. I — I 
knew Nathan’s voice — only they were talking very loud — 
awfully loud — so then I went in. And there wasn’t any¬ 
body in the front room, but you know those two partitions 
one on each side with ‘ Burke’ on one and ‘Lewis’ on the 
other? The talking was all behind the ‘Burke’ door, and 
I was just going to knock when the other man — he’s a 
deaf man, a farmer or something, at least he looks like one, 
and you called him ‘ Liph ’ — he began to ask questions 
about how much Uncle George had left, and then he got to 
talking about why didn’t you get your property back that 
was in the old Refugee Tract — and I knew that was where 
ever so much of ours — Uncle George’s, I mean — was, 
and — and I don’t know why, I didn’t knock. I listened. 
He was talking so loud, anybody could have heard outside 
in the street almost. You had to talk loud, too, to make him 
understand. I can remember every single thing you both 
said—” and, in fact, at this point, she repeated the whole 
of Williams’s talk and Burke’s, word for word, from first to 
last, with amazing accuracy. “And, of course, the longer 
I stood there listening, the worse it made it,” she finished 
ingenuously; “I — I had to go away without your seeing me. 
And I wanted to think , anyhow. And you looked as if you 
might be angry if—” 

“I looked as if — but how did you know how I looked?” 
interrupted Burke. 


THE GRANGER CLAIMS ARE SETTLED 609 


“I wanted to see, and there was a knot-hole in the parti¬ 
tion, only it was too high up; I — I climbed on the table 
and looked through,” said Francie, scarlet, but honest. 

Mr. Burke, surveying her, exercised a self-control of which 
he is to this moment and instant proud; he knew if he 
laughed she would never forgive him. But Mrs. Ducey, who 
had sat silent through the recital, now spoke in a strained 
voice. 

“Is all that true about your grandfather, Nathan? I 
don’t know anything about the law; you know that. 
Please just tell me in a plain way if it is really all yours — 
everything that Uncle George bought in that tract, I mean. 
We don’t want anything that doesn’t rightfully belong to 
us. I mean by right , I don’t mean by law. We’d rather you 
took whatever ought to be yours. I owe you still,, anyhow, 
for what you did for my Georgie. I — I meant to pay you 
that as soon as we began to have a little more money — there 
were so many things to do at first, you know. But you may 
as well tell me right out — it’s no kindness to try and make 
it easy for me. If all that land was your grandfather’s and 
he never sold it, it ought to be yours.” 

Burke looked down at her, infinitely touched. I trust it 
will not be taken for a piece of idle fine talk when I say that 
if at any time in his career he could have had his inheritance 
for the lifting of a finger, he would not have taken it. But 
he could not tell Mrs. Ducey so; that would have been only 
to humiliate still further that brave, and proud, and upright 
spirit. There was something magnanimous in the way she 
trusted to his own magnanimity, relied on his truth and 
fairness. 

“I’m sorry Francie heard all this talk, Mrs. Ducey,” he 
said; “not that it was wrong for her to listen, or did any real 
harm, of course; we should probably have come to this 
sooner or later, anyhow. But it’s a pity it happened this 
way. ’Liph Williams is my good friend, but he doesn’t know 
a thing in the world about my ‘rights,’ as he calls them; 
he just wanted to hear himself talk. I have a claim in law 
on your uncle’s estate; in right, I think I have none at all. 
If I had thought otherwise, I should have spoken about it 
long ago. I couldn’t be satisfied any more than yourself 
to push a mere technical claim. That’s not my idea of what 

2 R 


610 


NATHAN BURKE 


law is meant to do. You see, we think very much alike to 
that point — so much alike that it seems to me there’s not 
muclruse our talking about it. We understand each other—” 

Mrs. Ducey looked at him with a convulsed face; all at 
once she burst out in wild tears. “You’re a good man — 
oh, you’re a good man, Nathan Burke!’’she sobbed hysteri¬ 
cally. Francie ran to her, and put her arms around her with 
soothing words. 

“She’s all right — she’ll be all right in a minute, Nathan,” 
she said hurriedly. “ I’ll take her to her room. Come and 
lie down, Aunt Anne, do come; you’re all worn out and 
nervous — it’s my fault — I ought to have thought what I 
was doing. Never mind — you can talk the rest over an¬ 
other time — can’t she, Nathan ? No, no, don’t go away 
now — wait till I come back — I’ll be back in just a little. 
Please wait.” She led her aunt away, leaving Burke alone 
in wonder and concern; he could hear her coaxing and sup¬ 
porting Mrs. Ducey up the stairs, and their footsteps over¬ 
head. 

He stood waiting for a while uncertainly; then at last 
sat down again by the lamp. Francie might have some fur¬ 
ther tragic communication, he thought, almost with a smile 

— her manner had been very insistent. And, good Lord! 

— he said inwardly, with a gasp — suppose she had heard 
’Liph’s final remarks ! But a moment’s reflection convinced 
him that she must have clambered down from her perch, and 
gone scampering off by that time. He would never know, 
at any rate — impossible to mention it — that is — he felt 
himself redden at his own thought. He got up and went 
fidgetting about the room in a hardly controlled excitement, 
looking at the pictures on the wall, the gilt “Garland of 
Friendship” and other gift-books on the table, Francie’s 
sewing-basket, and some kind of white embroidery-work 
on the chair where she had thrown it down. Just as he got 
to this point, she came back, walking into the room, and up 
to him with a strange little air of determination, at once 
defiant and accusing. 

“ Is Mrs. Ducey better ? Would you like me to go for the 
doctor?” Burke asked anxiously. 

“Aunt Anne’s all right. I told you she would be all 
right — she doesn’t need medicine. She’s only nervous. I 


THE GRANGER CLAIMS ARE SETTLED 611 


suppose I ought to have told her about this differently — 
but it can't be helped now. She had to know; and you never 
would have told her. You know that!" said Francie, with 
severity. 

“Well, I — I didn't see that there was any necessity —" 

“Fiddle-de-dee!" said this remarkable young woman, 
very spiritedly; “you can't tell me any story like that, Na¬ 
than. You can’t talk to me the way you do to Aunt Anne. 
You know very well that all that land was your own grand¬ 
father's, and ought to be yours this minute, and would be 
if you'd make the slightest effort to get it —" 

“ You're very much mistaken, Francie," interrupted Burke. 
“ I don't know why you and your aunt both want to go jump¬ 
ing to conclusions like that. You seem to take what poor 
old Williams says for law and gospel. Setting aside any 
question of right or wrong, it would be a long, difficult, 
tedious matter for me to prove any claim at all. It would 
even be hard to furnish legal proof that Granger was my 
grandfather —" 

“But you could, though. You know you could!" 

“Well, and what if I could ? I don't care to. I'm thirty- 
one years old; if I've got along without the Refugee Tract 
all this while, I guess I can finish out without it," said Na¬ 
than, not able to understand her insistence. 

“That's just it — you weren’t thirty-one when you first 
found it out. You could have had it any time these ten 
years, only you'd rather work and slave and pinch than go 
to law against Uncle George. You thought you were behol¬ 
den to him, and that's the real reason you never claimed it, 
Nathan. It's just as that man said. You'd have tried to 
get it from anybody but Uncle George." 

“And so I was beholden to him," cried out Nat; “and I 
think I should have been a poor sort of creature to have 
harried him with law-suits; there's no property on earth 
worth it. The old man that’s gone was mighty good to me, 
Francie. You don't understand. Mr. Marsh was the first 
friend I ever had; he took me out of the stable; he made 
me; he—" 

“You made yourself," said the girl; “anyhow, you don't 
owe anything to the rest of us. We never did anything 
for you. You could take it from us. You could take 


612 


NATHAN BURKE 


my share of it, if you don’t want to give Aunt Anne 
trouble — ” 

“Francie!” 

She came nearer to him — came quite close, and put up her 
two hands against his coat unconsciously, in a gesture of 
entreaty. “Nathan, please! I — I feel as if — as if we 
ought to, you know — as if—” 

“Francie!” said the young man again, huskily, and 
grasped her hands, as she made a motion to withdraw them 
with suddenly frightened eyes. He held them against his 
breast, looking into her face, trembling. 

“Don’t, Nathan, please, I—” 

“Francie, I have to. I have to tell you. I love you.” 
His heart raced; his throat drew together so that he could 
scarcely get out the words. He began again: “I love you. 
Sometimes I’ve thought you cared for me a little — not the 
way I care for you, of course, but just a little. There isn’t 
anything about me to make a woman love me, I know that. 
But I ask you to marry me, even so; even if you only care 
a little. Will you, Francie ? ” 

It came in a broken and unnatural voice; it was not at 
all what he had meant to say; neither were the time and 
place as he had planned them; for, I may as well confess it, 
poor Nat had rehearsed this event a score of times, since he 
first, with longing and uncertainty, began to wonder if it ever 
could be possible. He waited in a miserable suspense. She 
did not shrink from him now, nor try to take her hands 
away; she stood with her head drooped a little. Then she 
spoke at last, as brokenly as he — “Oh, Nathan, you are 
so — so —” and suddenly, neither of them knew how, she 
was in his arms with a kind of sob, and her face against his 
shoulder! Burke’s arm tightened about her little, slim, 
soft, and yielding shape with an impulse that the next instant 
shamed him, yet it was out of his control; he put his lips 
against her pretty hair; he was afraid to kiss her, until she 
lifted her face. 

After a while he said: “Do you know what you made me 
think of just now when you were insisting on my taking 
your share? You made me think of the very first time I 
ever saw you, and you wanted to give me your quarter-dol- 
lar — all the money you had. Do you remember ? ” 


THE GRANGER CLAIMS ARE SETTLED 613 


“Well, I had my way, too, didn’t I?” said Francie, a 
tender mischief lighting her eyes; “I made you take it. 
Isn’t this it on your watch-chain? I’ve always liked to 
think you had that, Nathan.” 

Burke was astonished. “I thought you’d forgotten all 
about it!” he said. .“Once I said something to you about it, 
and you — you didn’t seem to like my mentioning it. So 
I never did again.” 

“Nathan,” said Francie, again; “you are so — so —! ” 

“Well, what is it that I am ? You’ve said that before —” 

“Why, it’s just that you never seemed to know. You just 
wouldn’t let yourself see, even when you — when you 
wanted to. It was — it was always you, Nathan. I — I 
never thought about anybody else. It was always you from 
the beginning, I think. Don’t you remember how I cried 
that time when you went away to Uncle George at the 
store ? I’ve wondered that you didn’t understand.” 

“Why, you were only a little girl, then,” said Nat, not 
quite able to believe this, in spite of her dear, earnest face. 
“How about all those little boys that used to come mooning 
around and load you up with pop-corn balls and molasses 
candy and stuff ? I had to shoo ’em off the place. And 
when you grew up —” 

“I sent them all off — I never cared for one of them,” she 
interrupted, flushing brightly. 

“I thought they weren’t any of them good enough for 
you, Francie. Except Jim Sharpless —” 

“Who told you that?” said the girl, quickly. “I never 
said a word to anybody about — about — I mean when men 
wanted me to marry them, Nathan. I never told. Girls 
do — some girls. But I wouldn’t. How did you know?” 

“He told me himself. Poor Jim!” said Burke. And they 
were both gravely silent a little. “He said he thought there 
was somebody else,” said Burke, at last, with a faint sting of 
j ealousy. “ Was there ? ” 

“ It was you, Nathan. It was never anybody but you. 
When you went away to the war, I thought — I thought I’d 
never live through it. I used to look in the glass and wonder 
why my hair didn’t turn gray. When I gave the flag to 
your company, you know — I don’t know how I did it. I 
felt as if I were made of glass, and everybody could see right 


614 


NATHAN BURKE 


through me, and knew what I was thinking and feeling when 
I stood up there on the porch and gave it to you. There 
was a man — never mind who — he was with you — that 
came and asked me to be engaged to him that morning. 
And it was the third time, and I was so weary and sad and 
— and bitter, I suppose — I was hateful to him. I told 
him I couldn’t bear him, and please go away and leave me 
in peace. I never wanted to see him again. So he went away, 
hanging his head. He was killed afterwards in one of those 
skirmishes you had somewhere — and, oh, Nathan, that 
made me feel so — so -— I might have been a little kinder 
to him. I wish I’d been a little kinder to him,” said Fran- 
cie, her eyes filling with remorseful tears; “but everything 
seemed to be going at cross-purposes, and nobody cared for 
the right person, somehow. When you marched, I ran away 
from them all at the house, and watched you go all by my¬ 
self. You didn’t see me. But the other man did — poor 
fellow! And then afterwards when the news came about the 
way you did at Monterey and Chapultepec and everywhere, 
I was so proud. I thought: ‘Well, it don’t hurt for me to be 
proud of him, anyhow. Nobody knows I am. It doesn’t 
hurt, even if I haven’t any business to be proud of him. I 
always knew that was the kind of man he was— ’” She 
paused, a little out of breath with the hurry of this speech, 
looking at him both shyly and wistfully, the warm pink 
coming and going in her cheeks after that fashion Nat had 
always so loved to watch. But now his eyes fell before the 
clear truth and purity of hers. 

“I — I wasn’t worth all that, Francie,” he said in honest 
humility; “I’m not worth it now. It isn’t that I’ve ever 
done anything I’m ashamed of — but no man could be good 
enough for that — good enough for a woman like you to love, 
I think.” 

“Nathan,” said Francie, in a queer voice somewhere 
between tears and laughter, “that’s just like you—just 
exactly like you!” 


CHAPTER XXI 


Exeunt Omnes 

This history is all but ended. For, as most such his¬ 
tories go, its hero having arrived at middle life, some success, 
a tolerable income, and a very great and undeserved happi¬ 
ness, there cannot be, in conscience, much more to say about 
him. You may, if you please, fancy Mr. Burke, on a cer¬ 
tain fine morning in early spring, sitting down to his break¬ 
fast — of which he cannot eat one morsel — in a tremendous 
state of nervousness, with a new black superfine broad¬ 
cloth suit about the cut of which he has some dark sus¬ 
picions, and a new white waistcoat, and a pair of agonizing 
new boots, and a new plain gold ring in his pocket which he is 
in mortal terror of losing. It is his last breakfast at the board¬ 
ing-house table; he spills the salt; he knocks over his coffee- 
cup; he grins feebly at his fellow-boarders’jokes. He jumps 
and turns pale when somebody rushes in to announce the 
arrival of Dr. Yardaman who, in his quality of best man, 
has called in a carriage for the groom. The unhappy-look¬ 
ing gentleman is not, in fact, about to wind up his interest¬ 
ing career under the guillotine; he is going to his own wedding 
in church before the whole of the town — is not his condition 
pitiable ? You may read the next day in the papers: 
“Married — On Wednesday the 15th inst. at Trinity 
Church, by the Right Reverend Charles Mcllvaine, D.D., 
Frances, only daughter of the late Francis and the late 
Cornelia (Marsh) Blake, to Nathan Burke, Esq., all parties 
of this city.” And, strange to say, it has often seemed to 
Burke as if, instead of ending, his life-story only began in 
earnest upon that fortunate Wednesday the 15th inst.! 

And so they were married and lived happily ever after! 
All Nat’s dreams came true — or, at least, enough to satisfy 
any reasonable man. He had the little home he had longed 
for how many years; his old musket hung at last over his 

615 


616 


NATHAN BURKE 


own hearth, decorating the mantle in company with a pair 
of china figures simpering at each other in highly glazed 
pink-and-yellow garments — ornaments (begged from Mrs. 
Ducey) of which both Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Burke were, 
for some reason, very fond. And it was under the shadow of 
these china Lares that Nat and his wife sat down together 
to read a letter which came not long after the wedding, and, 
in part, certainly deserves quoting here. It was a far-trav¬ 
elled document, having been more than two months on its 
way; perhaps its author was not sorry in his heart of hearts 
to be out of sight and sound of Francie’s wedding-bells, al¬ 
though he was generously glad to hear of his friend’s happi¬ 
ness, and had already written them both most kind and 
hearty letters; and sent the bride a present of wonderful old 
Spanish laces fit for a countess, and a fan and a high, jewelled 
comb which she bestowed among her choicest treasures. 

Sacramento, 

New Year’s Day, 1852. 

Dear Nat (wrote Jim), 

Since my last to you, I have gone, and come back from, 
a tour up Nevada County way, and along the diggings — 
or washings — of the South Yuba, and all its little tributary 
streams. They are all alive with gold-seekers—twice as many 
as when I was there about this same time last year, and five 
or six times as when I first came to the West. And notwith¬ 
standing that everybody has been prophesying ever since the 
excitement began that the gold would inevitably peter out 
in a few months or a year at farthest, they seem to be tak¬ 
ing out as much as ever, with more continually in sight — 
enough for the whole United States, and the whole United 
States is coming here to get it! The feeling that it’s too 
good to be true and can’t possibly keep on this way, and that 
one must make hay while the sun shines is just as strong as 
ever, though; and every mother’s son of them all digs, spends, 
works, plays with a frenzied energy. I don’t believe any¬ 
thing like it was ever seen since the world began; certainly 
the old fellows who came pioneering out and settled up Ohio 
fifty years ago were no such exuberant lot; yet, barring the 
gold, the conditions of life must have been a good deal the 
same, and the character of the adventurers themselves not 


EXEUNT OMNES 


617 


very different. . . . One thing you may be sure of: not all 
the bonanza fortunes in California are dug out of the ground, 
or sluiced out of the rivers; you may leave all that manual 
labor and dirt and discomfort to others, and no matter how 
rich they strike it, your score may be even in the end. Run 
a saloon, run a day-and-night poker establishment, run a 
boarding-house at heaven-scaling prices, run a general store, 
and sell boots at sixteen dollars a pair, pork at a dollar a 
pound (mouldy; Lord*knows what they’d ask if it were 
sweet!), and apples for seventy-five cents apiece — would 
anyone ask a gold-mine to pay better ? I gave a dollar for 
a two-months-old copy of the New York Herald, which I 
got of my friend Mr. Hamlet Davis who keeps a store on 
Deer Creek (about fifteen miles south of the River), and also 
runs a kind of unofficial post-office, not having any legal 
appointment, and without pay. However, Hamlet will 
never go to the poor-house by reason of that piece of public 
spirit, as it brings all the miners between him and the Yuba 
to his store, and he does a rousing business in commodities 
at the scale of prices I have quoted. He coyly admitted to 
me that he was making more money than the average miner. 

. . They’re hustling each other for elbow-room all 
the way up and down the Creek, and they all got to eat and 
drink, you know. Of course,” he added philosophically; 
“the country will be cleaned out pretty soon at this rate, 
and the minute the miners go, I got to go too. There ain’t 
anything to California but the gold; ’tain’t any good for a 
farming country, and everybody can farm back in the States 
if they want to, anyhow, and live easier and cheaper. I 
calc’late to make my pile before she busts up teetotally.” 

This is the way they all talk. To hear them, one would 
think there never was a community so powerfully impressed 
with a sense of the ephemeral nature of earthly achievement. 
We are tolerably strong on morals anyhow in Nevada 
County, contrary to popular opinion back east, and the usual 
habit of newly-settled places. In the main we are more 
decent and law-abiding than some of the counties and cities 
at home in the old states that call us names. At any rate, 
this is what I have been warmly assured by Mr. Davis and 
others, and I never contradict — I don’t want to make myself 
unpopular in this highly moral settlement. I already ran 


618 


NATHAN BURKE 


some risk of it, not being a miner, or store-keeper, or express- 
rider, or gambler, or, in short, practicing any recognized or 
reputable calling; but I forestalled unkind criticism (at least, 
of the shot-gun variety) by explaining myself liberally to all 
inquirers, and showed Davis my last article on the inside 
sheet of the Herald to his great interest. 

“Well, now, of course you wanted to see your name in 
print,” he said, indulgently; “why, you didn’t need to buy 
a copy just for that. I’d have let you have a peek. I guess 
I’ll have to read that. Beats me how you can ever find 
anything to write about out here!” 

I told him I should like to write about him if he didn’t 
mind — at which he first looked suspicious, then grinned 
broadly. “You want to bear in mind the Herald comes to 
camp regular, young man,” he remarked. And went on 
to say, more seriously, that if I undertook to describe any 
hold-ups, or shooting-scrapes, or claim-jumping outrages 
and so on, I ought to emphasize the fact that these wrongs 
were always righted as far as possible, and the offenders 
sought out and punished; and that their rough-and-ready 
justice was still justice quite as much in California as in Con¬ 
necticut. “Once in a while the men get excited and act too 
quick,” he said reasonably; “but they’ll mostly listen to rea¬ 
son. I guess Nevada County ain’t the only place on earth 
where guilty folks sometimes go free, and innocent ones get 
the punishment. You can’t help feeling pretty strong 
against the half-breeds and Mexicans and Chinese. They 
ain’t white, and that’s all there is to it. You can’t treat ’em 
like white men any more than you could a nigger. And 
Mormons; Mormons are t>ed-rock in my opinion. ’Tain’t 
their fool religion, you know. It’s them theirselves, and the 
way they live.” 

I said most people would be surprised that there wasn’t 
more irregularity in living, all things considered. But I 
don’t know of a place where a decent woman, or, in fact, 
almost any kind of woman could be more sure of respect and 
kind treatment. To which he replied rather ambiguously 
that there were mighty few women anyhow; three over at 
Selby flat (to at least two hundred men!), that little French 
widow that was dealing faro down at Centreville now, but 
she used to be in Nevada City; and all the rest were Mexican 


EXEUNT OMNES 


619 


or Indian. Here he had to break off to go and serve a young 
miner with powder and shot. It seemed to me they had 
quite a long dicker over it, talking in low voices; and when 
Mr. Davis came back he was absent and moody, and showed 
no disposition to take up the conversation where we had 
left off. Not until I was about to saddle up and leave did 
he return to his former geniality; and then he followed me 
to the door, and asked with a good deal of interest which 
way I was going. Upon being told that I Expected to 
make camp on Rock Creek that evening, and keep on in a 
general north-east direction for the next two days, till I got 
to Kanaka — where there was a big stampede of miners 
lately, with rumors of fabulously rich deposits in the bed of 
the stream — he first looked, I thought, a little queer, hesi¬ 
tated, and then suggested Scott’s ranch as a good place to 
stop, instead of camping out in the open on the creek. Why 
didn’t I go on to Scott’s ranch ? It was only a few miles 
further, and old man Scott would be glad to see me. Old 
man Scott remembered me from last year — often talked 
about me. Why didn’t I go on to Scott’s ? I said Scott’s 
was too far, and that I would probably strike some miner 
on the creek, who would take me in; if not, the October 
nights were pleasant, and I didn’t mind being outdoors. 
Well, he didn’t know; it was mighty wild and lonesome up 
on Rock Creek. “ Why,” said I; “you just said they were 
hustling each other for elbow-room up there!” 

He had no answer for that; and finally let me go with a 
sort of I-wash-my-hands-of-it air at once dubious and an¬ 
noyed. So that, you see, Nat, I took the trail with a pleas¬ 
ant feeling of being in the wake of some kind of adventure; 
and so I was, though it had nothing to do with me personally. 
I suppose it was as much Davis’ manner that put the idea 
into my head, as anything he said. This is a country where 
everybody most religiously minds his own business, and he 
had been so insistent against Rock Creek, when ordinarily 
he wouldn’t have asked or cared anything about my plans, 
that anyone would have scented mystery. 

Not far out of town I overtook the young miner who had 
been buying the powder and shot, journeying blithely along, 
as he openly told me on my dropping alongside, to his cabin 
on the creek. There was nothing mysterious about him, 


620 


NATHAN BURKE 


at any rate; in the twelve or fifteen mile ride he told me all 
about himself. He and his pardner were washing with 
sluice-boxes, and what they call a “Long Tom”; been at it a 
year; last week they took out forty-one and three-quarter 
ounces — pretty fair, hey? It was ever so much better 
having a pardner; you didn’t get so lonesome. When he 
first came out (from Rhode Island) he didn’t have anyone to 
live with him, and though he made money right along, he 
pretty near died of homesickness. His name was Jackson, 
and his pardner’s Anderson. Anderson was older than him¬ 
self, a fine fellow, a splendid fellow, a man of education, you 
know, from Syracuse, New York. He liked to be with 
people of education, he could see I was, etc. He was very 
much interested to hear what my trade was, and vastly 
pleased with his own powers of perception. “I knew you 
were an educated man!” he said two or three times with 
pride; “are you going to write a book about California?” 

I said: “I don’t know enough to write a book yet, but 
some day I hope to. I was talking to Mr. Davis about that 
when you came in.” 

He gave me a thoughtful look. “Yes. That’s what he 
said. He seemed to be kind of afraid of what you’d write to 
your paper about — about the way it is out here. But I 
don’t see why it shouldn’t all be put down, good, bad and 
indifferent. That’s what I’d do, if I was writing. It can't 
be like it is back home; we’ve got different things to settle 
— things they haven’t got at home —” 

And I thought he was on the point of letting me into some 
interesting secret, when unluckily we hove in sight of his 
cabin, and the educated man from Syracuse came out to 
greet us. 

Anderson was another good fellow, quite as pleasant and 
open in his talk as the younger man; and of course they 
asked me to stay the night, and set out the pot of cold beans, 
and made tea, and fried a bit of pork to sop our bread in, 
with the kindest and most unaffected hospitality in the 
world. “I make the bread,” said Jackson, proudly; “the 
boys say I make the best bread of anybody on the Creek.” 

. It was while we were sitting at supper, the twilight begin¬ 
ning to close in, and a star or two coming out prettily over 
the pine-tree tops, that all at once with a rub-dub of hoofs 


EXEUNT OMNES 


621 


on the trail, we heard several men ride up. The two partners 
simultaneously set down their tin mugs, and looked at each 
other and at me; outside the riders began to hail them. 

“He don’t know anything about it, of course,” said Jack- 
son to the other in an undertone; “I — I said I’d go, you 
know.” 

Anderson said he wasn’t going anyhow — he didn’t believe 
he wanted to. They were both plainly unsettled by my 
presence; at last Jackson went out to talk to the others, 
and I took the chance to say frankly to Anderson that what¬ 
ever was happening, I saw I was in the way, but I would go 
on to Scott’s ranch where I was known, and be just as much 
obliged as if I had stayed with them. He demurred hastily. 

“Oh, you needn’t to do that,” he said, in concern; “we 
wouldn’t have you do that. And besides — Scott’s ranch! 
Lord love you, the whole of Scott’s ranch’ll likely be going 
along themselves! No reason why you shouldn’t come too, 
stranger, if you feel like it. It’s been kept pretty dark, but 
as long as you know this much, you might as well see the 
rest, seems to me. Don’t want you to think we’re ashamed 
of what we’re doing, anyway. It’s all square.” With this 
invitation, after a little more talk, we went outside, and 
saddled up again, and joined the party; there were six or 
eight of them. It was so dark we could hardly see one 
another’s faces, but nobody had on a mask or any kind of 
disguise. I suppose Jackson had accounted for me, for no 
one questioned my being with them. In fact, as we rode 
along, we received so many additions from cabins here and 
there that I should think there must have been between 
twenty-five and thirty all told. We struck right across in 
the direction of Round Mountain. There wasn’t much 
talking; nevertheless we went along without any effort at 
secrecy. I kept near to Anderson, and after a while, when 
we were a little separated from the rest picking our way up 
the hill-side, he told me in a low voice what it was all about 
— gave me an outline, that is. 

“Things have got to be pretty bad, before we can afford to 
take any notice of ’em,” he said; “live and let live is our 
motto, generally speaking. But we’ve got to draw the line 
somewhere. I don’t know that you’ve been here long enough 
to hear about Holiness Farm — it’s only been going this last 


622 


NATHAN BURKE 


year. Man came and located on Round Mountain ten or 
twelve months ago; he didn’t appear to do any mining; 
just settled down there. It got around first he was a hermit; 
then some said he was some kind of missionary; then there 
was a report that he was spreading a new sort of religion 
among the Mexicans and Indians and Chinese and heathen 
generally. Nobody paid much attention to it; we’re all 
busy, and a religion more or less don’t make much difference 
here. I suppose there’re forty in camp — but mostly no 
religion at all. Presently, however, it leaked out that it 
was only the women his reverence was converting. That 
don’t ever look very well. They went up there in droves — so 
they say, I don’t know anything of my own self — and the 
place being lonely and off to itself, nobody knew what they 
did exactly. Nobody paid much attention to that either; 
if Mr. Missionary’s tastes ran to half-breed and Digger 
women, why, it was low-down, of course, but none of our 
funeral, you understand. It seems, though, they had some 
kind of shindy — rites, you know; and all the sisters had to 
bring tithes, or tribute; that’s what gave Holiness Farm a 
black eye, as you might say. Because these Indian women 
and the rest would loaf around the camps awhile, then bye 
and bye they’d pike off to Round Mountain with a little 
jag of dust, or a good steel tool, or some fellow’s clean shirt, 
or whatever else they could get their hands on. They’re 
pretty slick thieves. We’ve missed things ourselves. Some 
of ’em live up there and do the work, cook and wash, and 
rock a little for gold off and on in the creek, while his holi¬ 
ness sets there and gets fat. Made the boys kind of sore. 
’Tain’t decent anyhow. So they’ve about made up their 
minds to invite him to leave — him and the squaws. Time 
the place was cleaned out.” 

All this information he delivered in that manner of ironic 
humor with which they seem to meet every situation, no 
matter how grave. I am more or less of a greenhorn still, 
and I swear I don’t know half the time whether they are in 
earnest, or only having a little fun at my expense; and then 
again I am sometimes tempted to set down for our strongest 
national characteristic, the disposition to levity about 
serious things, and to a perfectly abysmal seriousness about 
trivialities! “Inviting him to leave” might mean anything 


EXEUNT OMNES 


623 


from a piece of horseplay to lynching; but in either case, 
I couldn’t do much but look on, and keep my mouth shut. 
I asked Anderson what he thought the missionary could 
possibly do with his disciples’ “tithes”? He answered 
succinctly that he “snaked” the dust and the eatables for 
his own use; and had been known to dispose of the tools 
and clothing in distant camps or to chance wayfarers — 
“You can get a whaling price for things like that, if you know 
how,” he explained. “At least, that’s what we suppose he 
does. Nobody’s ever been inside his cabin. The boys 
gave it that name — Holiness Farm; seemed kind of ap¬ 
propriate, hey?” 

We arrived there in about an hour, the last part pretty stiff 
climbing, so that we had to dismount and tie the horses, 
and make our way through the brush perhaps three hundred 
yards on foot, spreading out to surround the place. They 
all had guns or revolvers; I had left mine in my belt, and 
forgot it when we started. Jackson and I, and another man 
whom they called “ ’Squire” — I didn’t hear his last name 
— kept together. The place was very quiet and dark and 
peaceful, no dogs around to give warning, just an ordinary 
cabin in a clearing. There were some chicken-coops, and a 
lot of washing hanging out on a line. This all had so pas¬ 
toral and harmless a look, I confess to some misgivings about 
Nevada County justice. If the Holiness-Farm-ers had been 
having some kind of orgy, chanting incantations over a pile of 
skulls, or dancing around a cauldron of witches’ broth, it would 
have been at once more picturesque and more convincing. 
However, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye (to borrow 
and debase a phrase) the scene changed; our advance had 
not been at all covert or stealthy, and as we stepped out 
from all sides into the open, moonlit space, on a sudden, 
appalling noise crashed forth point-blank in our faces; jets 
of fire sprayed from the cabin; invisible bee-like missiles 
zipped and pinged around; the mountains shouted back 
Homeric echoes; and I think every individual “squaw” 
within the walls must have let off a screech at the same time 
she pulled the trigger. Holiness Farm was “on”! They 
expected us, and in times of peace had prepared for war ! 

In the following infinitesimally brief pause, there went 
charging through my head Colonel Harney’s order before 


624 


NATHAN BURKE 


the batteries at the Nino Perdido, to “rush ’em, boys, before 
they have time to load again!” But no such haste was 
necessary; I was the sole creature, apparently, to take our 
welcome seriously; the whole thing was as inconsequent as 
a dream. A dying turkey — the only person injured in this 
struggle, as it presently developed — began a terific quawking 
and flopping, and all the poultry at once chorussed stentorian 
surprise and fright. On the instant the pines and mountain¬ 
sides reverberated laughter, gay profanity, goblin whoops 
and jibes. Invitations to try, try again, Brigham! advice 
on the proper training of a harem, lively unprintable sug¬ 
gestions, mock reproaches, hailed around. A torch sprang 
up; in a second, somehow or other, everybody had a torch; 
and men swarmed over the cabin, burst it in, swept it out, 
pots, pans, benches, flour-barrels, sides of bacon, shovels, 
blankets — and women ! 

There were only three of them after all, a Mexican scream¬ 
ing and praying, and two Indian women terribly frightened, 
but silent, poor creatures, after their kind. They looked like 
all the rest, dirty and barefoot with their long black hair 
streaming down — homely as sin! Apart from a little hus¬ 
tling, nobody offered to molest them; and, being released, the 
two Indians fled into the brush and were no more seen. The 
Mexican (who appeared to be a well-known character in the 
camps, and was pleasantly hailed by name, Pepita) crouched 
on the ground whimpering, among the chickens. In the 
meanwhile the hunt went merrily forward. I took no part; 
it wasn’t expected of me, and I didn’t want to bungle the 
business by interfering. After some uproarious rummaging, 
half a dozen of them dragged him out triumphantly. They 
had set fire to the cabin, whether by accident or not I don’t 
know; nobody cared anyhow. The flames went soaring 
overhead; there stood the proprietor of Holiness Farm, with 
a blanket wrapped around him, and a beard like a prophet. 
I believe he had been found under a bunk or in some equally 
ignoble posture; and his first words in a shrill, trembling 
voice were: “What is the meaning of this outrage?” 

One or two of the men collapsed on the ground and lay 
and rolled over, laughing; they all crowded near swearing 
and chuckling to get a look at him; it seems he rarely let 
himself be seen and his features were not familiar to the 


EXEUNT OMNES 


625 


settlement. I took a look, too, but merely to reassure my¬ 
self, for, Nathan, I knew the voice or the manner or both 
the minute he spoke. It was George Ducey. 

I cannot tell why I was not more surprised; perhaps I had 
already reached the limit of excitement. The surprise came 
later, when I sat down to think it over coolly. At the time, 
there was something weirdly natural about it; anything 
— all kinds of things — happen in California. You get used 
to it. The last time I saw George was on the wharf at Saint 
Louis in the nipping dawn, scuttling off with his two bunko¬ 
ing acquaintances. The underworld had received him — 
why shouldn’t he be here ? Except for the beard, he was not 
much changed; and was as scared and sneaking and pompous 
and silly all at once as you would expect George to be. I 
have thought since that he has advanced considerably in the 
school of scoundrelism since the old days of his first essays; 
to camp in the Sierras, and get a lot of women to take care of 
him, and support him and steal for him — the exploit shows 
force and originality. George was always something of a 
lady-killer, you remember. 

Somebody sang out to cut down the clothes-line, and for 
one horrible instant, I thought they were going to hang him; 
in fact, I believe some minds did glance that way. But, 
“Born to be drowned, you’ll never be hanged” — and I 
think George had better look out every time he crosses water. 
They only tied him up, and put him aside while they 
gathered up the household goods, and completed the de¬ 
struction of the cabin. Afterwards there was a court held, 
with a regular jury drawn by lot, and the “ ’Squire” presiding; 
it was brutally funny. The court, if you please, appointed 
Anderson to defend him; and he got up and made a sort of jo¬ 
cosely moderate speech, pointing out that no one had actually 
caught the prisoner stealing anything with his own hands, 
or disposing of anything that could positively be identified 
as somebody else’s property; and that the women were 
notoriously given to thieving anyhow. “That was about 
all you could say for him, you know,” Anderson remarked to 
me afterwards. “Anyway you can put it in your book that 
we did it all regular and according to form, can’t you?” 

There was a strong feeling in favor of giving him twenty- 
five lashes on the bare back, and turning him out of camp 
2s 


626 


NATHAN BURKE 


on pain of hanging if he should ever come back ; some petty 
thieves over at Rose’s Bar, they tell me, have been thus 
served. And as I saw them coming by degrees to that 
decision, I — well, I concluded to get out! I knew I wouldn’t 
be missed. If ever there was a man who richly deserved 
twenty-five lashes on his bare back, it was George Ducey. 
But I couldn’t stay to see it. If the whipping could have done 
him any moral good — But he would be the same after 
twenty whippings. And no matter how much he suffered 
physically, the real suffering and shame and distress would 
be for the decent, humane people that had to look on. By 
heavens, Nathan, since I’ve been thinking about it, it’s given 
me a new and painful illumination on the whole subject of 
punishment for criminals. Something’s dreadfully wrong 
somewhere. 

I say I got up and left the circle just about as the jury were 
retiring behind the ruins of the cabin which was still burn¬ 
ing slowly. It had set fire to the underbrush on one side, 
and some of us had been kept busy beating and tramping it 
out, for a fire in these mountain-forests during the dry 
weather spreads forever, and is a very serious matter. I 
went down to where the horses were tethered, and while 
I was bothering about in the darkness, trying to find my own, 
there was another great outburst of yelling, and one or two 
guns going off up at the late Holiness Farm. “ They’re 
beginning!” I thought — and it was a pretty nauseating 
thought, Nat, that whip coming down and curling and writh¬ 
ing all along George’s bare back with a sting like a snake. 
Gr-r-rr! But the racket kept up; everybody seemed to be 
scattering and screeching. “What on earth—?” I won¬ 
dered. Then one man after another came threshing through 
the thickets, swearing and fuming, to his horse. I inquired. 
George had got away! 

It must have been done while they were at council. I 
think nobody was paying much attention to the prisoner 
whom they all knew to be securely tied; and the danger from 
the fire had further helped to distract us. They thought 
Pepita must have crept around to him with a knife and 
released him. She was gone, too. ... 

Anderson and I rode back to his cabin together. We left 
a posse beating the woods, but Anderson said he thought 



EXEUNT OMNES 


627 


they hadn’t much chance of catching his holiness; the Mexi¬ 
can woman was cunning as a fox, he said, and probably knew 
every tree and bush on the mountains like a brother, and 
could walk the trails blindfold; they must have had ten 
minutes start or more. “ He’s good and scared anyhow. I 
guess that’s the end of him in Nevada County,” he added 
philosophically; “he knows the boys would string him up 
next time, sure as death and taxes.” 

I daresay Anderson was right. Lord deliver us, Nathan, 
■what a life ! What a life the creature leads! Slinking from 
one evil to the next, sliding a little lower and a little lower, 
missing punishment by a hair’s breadth, yet, in one sense, 
getting punished all the time ! How does he sleep o’ nights ? 
What does he look like to himself ? What does he think 
about honest men ? It’s beyond me to guess. I hope I’ll 
never see him again. But of course he’ll turn up — they 
always do, to the discomfiture of their respectable families, 
who are eternally bolstering them up, and paying for them, 
and shielding them. The more vigorous rascals are soon 
and sometimes bloodily disposed of. But Tragedy is too 
great for George; she cannot stoop to him. . . . 

I am writing you this letter at the opening of the New 
Year; and it comes into my head that it will probably reach 
you near the time of your wedding — a new and beautiful 
year for you. You will have many such, I am sure. Think 
of me sometimes, Nat. . . . 

“We can’t tell George’s mother,” Burke said, as Francie 
and he finished reading the letter, seated comfortably side 
by side on the sofa; “she doesn’t know where he is, and it’s 
just as well.” 

“George will come home if ever he hears anything about 
poor Uncle George’s money,” said Francie, wisely; “only 
I suppose that’s not very likely, way off there in California.” 

“He’ll hear,” Burke said and laughed; “the world’s a 
small place after all. And it’s just as Jim says: there’ll 
always be George.” So, indeed, it has proved. But we 
did not give much thought to him then. 

Francie curled up against her husband’s shoulder. “Poor 
Aunt Anne!” she sighed pityingly, yet with a certain content; 
“poor Aunt Anne!” 


628 


NATHAN BURKE 


“I hope—” Nat began; and then he stopped short in a 
little confusion. He had actually been on the point of say¬ 
ing: “I hope we’ll never have a son like that!” And, Lord 
bless me, they had been married less than a fortnight! But, 
although he checked that monstrous remark, as I have 
shown, Francie looked up quickly, reddening high; and then 
quickly looked down again. “So do I!” she whispered, 
playing with the silver quarter on his watch-chain. Perhaps 
the feeling of it moved her to say after a moment or two: 
“It seems so strange the way you came into all our lives, 
Nathan, when you stop to think about it. And then the 
property — your property —” 

“I thought we’d agreed not to say any more about that,” 
said Nat; “hadn’t we? There’s only one thing I’d like to 
know — ?” 

“Yes?” 

“How on earth did you manage to climb up on the table 
and down again with that hoop thing on ?” 

Here the general’s autobiography rather abruptly ends. Whether 
it was his intention to leave it so on revision, no one, of course, can 
tell. I felt enough curiosity about some of the persons he mentions 
to make some inquiry into their fate; and I believe that George 
Ducey survived nearly all of them 1 He was still living in 1898, at a 
little town in North Carolina; I have not traced him farther. His 
mother and father, and Burke himself and his wife, had been dead for 
years. It will, perhaps, have been noticed that the name of Mary 
Sharpless never appears in the history after the separation; yet in 
their small social circle it was inevitable that they should meet. 
There is not much use in speculating as to what Nathan and Mrs. 
Nathan and Mrs. Andrews, nee Sharpless, said and did on those 
occasions; it probably bore no reference to what they felt and 
thought. The last-named died in 1863. 

I also, for my own satisfaction, prevailed on a legal friend to look 
up that old, dead, and gone, and forgotten matter of the Granger 
title; he tells me that Mr. Burke had a perfectly valid claim, involv¬ 
ing the larger part of the Marsh estate, and that it was well worth 
fighting for, had he chosen. I like him better for not having done 
so, although he himself speaks of the renunciation as if it were a slight 
thing. But, indeed, he nowhere seeks to present Nathan Burke in 
the light of a hero, throughout his modest romance. It is only a 
plain man’s story of his life. — Editor’s Note. 


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All losses or injuries beyond reasonable wear, how¬ 
ever caused, must be promptly adjusted by the person 
to whom the book is charged. 

Fine for over detention, two cents a day (Sunday 
excluded). 

Books will be issued and received from 9 a. m. to 
9 p. m. (Sundays, July 4, December 25, excepted). 

KEEP YOUR CARD IN THIS POCKET 

V. 8 . GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFTICE: 1927 9—1330 

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